Teachers and Students
by Heather Kind
Summary: Michael's home for a year, teaching for the CIA and enjoying life. Then his mom gets mono (yes, mono) and Michael and Fi suddenly find themselves with a two-year-old roommate, Charlie Westen. Michael and Fi may be teachers at work, but they're students of Charlie. Set after season 6 finale. Michael never had to make a deal. The CIA loved them all. All is good.
1. Easy life

The grainy image on the 25-inch plasma screen showed a woman, 40ish or a well-preserved 50, sitting on her bottom on a concrete floor with her back wedged in a corner of a room. She had brown hair. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe it was auburn or something. The image was black and white, because SOMEbody shipped the wrong camera from central supply.

Her whatever hair fell loosely to her elbows or so, except for a couple of clumps here and a few strands there. Those were stuck to her cheeks with silver duct tape. (White tape? Hard to say.) The only targets of the tape were her lips, but someone evidently got sloppy because it was way longer than it needed to be and about 20 degrees off from horizontal.

Her head angled down a bit as she looked at her hands, which were joined by her interlocking fingers. Which were interlocked because her wrists had been unceremoniously corralled into a white cable tie (beige?) and that was the only halfway comfortable way to have them.

For a woman who was tied to herself and breathing in rubber adhesive bits from duct tape, she didn't seem distressed.

She seemed bored.

She unlocked her fingers and began examining them. When she got to the ring finger of the first hand, she actually stopped, contorted the wrist and fingers of the second hand, and removed a hangnail. She tried to console her smarting cuticle in her mouth only to remember the tape.

Now she was starting to look annoyed.

As she inhaled and then exhaled through her nose dramatically, complete with shoulder lifting and dropping and everything, she glanced up at the camera recording all of this, squinted her eyes, thrust her head forward a few times dramatically, as one would in heated conversation if one's lips weren't taped together, then returned to a normal position and started her inspection of the second hand.

A dark haired man in the viewing room next door knew those squinty head thrusts were for him, and he knew they symbolized all the bad words the woman knew in each of the eight languages she spoke.

* * *

The viewing room door opened. A white guy with a cherubic face and a completely incongruous buzz cut ambled in, letting the door close loudly behind him. He joined the dark haired man, who was leaning against one of those long, brown tables they use for bake sales and break rooms. Seven others, two women and five men, sat around another one of those tables, looking at the screen and talking quietly to each other.

The dark haired man waited for the Cherub to say something. The Cherub started blinking. He coughed once. Probably a fake cough. An uncomfortable-silence-breaking cough. Four or five seconds passed.

The dark haired man sighed – not as melodramatically as the woman, but noticeably – and pushed a button on a very techy-looking console on the table. "Fi? We're done here. You can go."

The woman heaved another sigh and scooted herself back to a sitting position. Sometime after she'd finished with her second hand, she'd stretched out on the floor, where she looked to be doing some kind of yoga something or other. Maybe elongating her spine. Lifting her Siamese twin arm unit up a little and bending her neck down a little, her fingers found the left end of the duct tape near her jaw bone. One, two, three, RIP. A loud yell flooded the viewing room through the speaker. It didn't hurt that much, really, but Fi was irritated and wanted everyone to know it. She looked at the tape and saw long pieces of her hair on it.

While she opened and closed her jaw exaggeratedly, she tightened her arm muscles, rotated her right forearm a few times, drew her right shoulder back, and grimaced. Her right wrist begrudgingly came out of the zip tie. She shook the tie off her left wrist, grabbed the hairy tape, stood up, brushed off her hands and bum, and marched to the door.

A moment later she was in the viewing room.

* * *

"Okay, FIRST of all, when you tape someone's –"

"Fi, Fi, Fi, hang on," said the dark haired man, walking towards the woman with his arms extended and his palms out, the way to tell someone non-verbally to hang on and simultaneously prepare to fend off blows to your face if the person doesn't care to hang on. "I'm supposed to be teaching these people. Offering constructive criticism. Tips for improvement. I think we've already learned what happens when you play teacher. That one guy dropped out later that afternoon."

"Michael, this baby-faced chucklehead can't even work a piece of tape." She whipped her head toward the Cherub and waved the hairy tape in his face. "Whaddya **think** happens to hair when you glue it to skin, you idiot?" she snapped.

"Just – just – sit down, okay? There's coffee and an ammo catalog on that desk over there," Michael said in a tempting, sing-songing voice.

Fi – Fiona Glenanne, arms dealer and tough-love educator – hmmmphed and stomped off to the back corner.

Michael was Michael Westen, super mega spy extraordinaire. You all know the story.

Michael, Fiona, and the rest of the Scooby Gang (Sam Axe, Jesse Porter, Madeline Westen, and some random CIA people) had brought down whomever they were supposed to be bringing down this time, and they had lived happily ever after for the last few months. But it'd also been a horrible time for them all, because sometime on the road to happily ever after, Nate Westen, Michael's younger brother and Madeline's other son and very much not a super mega extraordinary anything, had been murdered. His murderers were no longer of this earth, but that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Nate's wife, Ruth, grieved terribly. She nearly checked out of life (permanently), so she checked in to a hospital. She and Madeline agreed Ruth's and Nate's 2-year-old son, Charlie, would be happiest and healthiest living with his grandma Maddie for a year or so. After that, they'd see. Maybe Ruth would move to Miami, where Madeline and Michael and Fiona and Sam and Jesse lived, so she and Charlie could have some semblance of a family. Not a normal family by any stretch. But a family just the same.

Already bored with her ammo catalog, Fi was ready to go home. She'd agreed to do these little tactical training workshops for Michael because that was his new gig now and she wanted to support him. After twenty-odd years of traipsing around the world, the last six of which had been punctuated by assassination attempts and mother issues, Michael was tired. Not just tired. Mistake-waiting-to-happen tired. Accidentally-go-to-Burundi-instead-of-Bulgaria tired. Get-himself-killed tired. So the CIA told him to go take a nap. For a year. They called it a "restoration period." He would still work for them, but locally, and on the weekdays, and with lunch breaks and monthly birthday celebrations in the break room.

And to everyone's surprise, not the least of whom was him, he went for it. Michael's not crazy. He knew he needed the rest. Everybody knew he needed the rest. He wanted to spend some time getting to know his nephew and all of Fiona's family's rugrats. They were up to 22 or something. He wanted to have a come-to-Jesus with his mom about her chain smoking and do whatever he needed to do to help her quit. And he wanted to travel for fun, with bathing suits and golf clubs instead of GPS trackers and sniper scopes.

Fi was thrilled about the year off. It allowed time for resting, for travelling, for figuring out what was next for them. And for just playing. They deserved to play. Both of them enjoyed playing with guns, so she especially enjoyed their playdates at the shooting range. She also figured a year was a sufficient amount of time for her to reverse the brainwashing the CIA had done on Michael and finally get him to see the light through refreshed eyes and newfound clarity.

Michael and Fiona had fought off and on for more than a decade about, well, about lots of stuff, but predominantly about work. He let his work define him, consume him, she said, and one way or another it was going to kill him. She didn't understand how it felt to have your life stolen, he shot back, and so many times be *this* close to getting it back only to have someone stick out their leg and trip you as you run to the finish line.

But now he had it back. The final curtain had been lifted. The burn notice was finished and all the sociopaths and psychopaths he met along the way were gone and really, truly, he had his life back. And once he was confident of that, he was more than happy to kick back for a while. A year seemed to be the magic number. The CIA suggested it; they thought it was long enough for him to rest and really get his head back in the game. Michael liked it because it gave him at least 10 or 11 months before he'd have to fight with Fiona again.

Because Michael fully intended to go back to work.


	2. The teachers

Michael's first restoration period assignment was doing some basic tactical training for a bunch of whippersnapper CIA analysts. Once a week, eight shiny new CIA babies flew to Miami from all over the country so they could sit in a room for 20 hours over three days and learn from Michael how to not die in the field. These people were literally among the smartest in the world, but, based on what Michael'd seen so far, more than a little short on street smarts. Not that they'd need to be that savvy. Analysts are never going to do dead drops in front of a Nicaraguan crack house and never going to blow up a Russian parking garage to create a distraction while they hauled ass to Finland. They're going to sit at their desks, with 5 or 6 monitors in front of them and another 30 on the wall, and figure out what a bunch of really important crap means.

Never say never, though. Every now and then an analyst found herself smack dab in the middle of something spyish and scary. The CIA finally wised up after the fourth one was killed and decided to give these people some basic skills. How to do a brush pass. How to convince a foreign interrogator you're an idiotic tourist who got lost in enemy territory and not an idiotic CIA analyst who got lost in enemy territory. How, apparently, to restrain someone so they can't rip the tape off their mouth and untie their hands and come yell at you for doing it wrong.

Enter Michael Westen.

And it'd been kinda fun, really. Michael always did have a soft spot for the underdog, and these people, no two ways about it, these people were the underdogs of life. So he decided to approach them like all the stray-kitten clients he'd picked up over the years: Recognize they're not entirely to blame for their situation, solve their problem and maybe impart a little common sense along the way, and try really hard to not let them be murdered. Usually for free. At least this time he was being paid. And he had health insurance for the first time in ages.

"All right," Michael said to this week's batch of eight earnest, eager students. "What was wrong with what we just saw?"

"She got away," one of them said. Maybe not the smartest one.

Ask a stupid question, Michael thought. He spread his lips into a broad smile, his go-to facial expression when he actually wants to pummel you. "Let me rephrase. What did Neal [aka the Cherub] do wrong that **allowed** her to get away?"

Crickets.

"I see. Well. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Good place to start, yes?" Michael smiled, trying to convey empathy and kindness, but mostly he conveyed his fear that the eight of them would get themselves abducted and/or executed within a month. He pushed some other buttons on the console, and a new image appeared on the screen.

Fiona was walking into the room. She kind of fake bounced, like someone does in a self-defense class while they're nonchalantly strolling before a sneak attack they know is coming. Neal followed her, maybe four or five steps behind. Suddenly he leapt towards her with his arms out, and when he made contact, he enveloped her in a bear hug from behind. Fi's face wasn't visible, but Michael knew, because he was Michael and she was Fi, that at that moment she was taking deep breaths and slowly counting to 10 over and over to stop herself from elbowing Neal in the neck. What **was** visible was that Fi stopped walking. Stopped moving, in fact. Neal still had her in his bear hug, but she wasn't trying to get away. Even so, it took him 16 seconds for him to figure out how to hold her with just his left arm, dig around in his pants pocket for the already-fastened-ready-to-be-tightened cable tie with his right hand, find it, get it out, drop it, lean both of them down a bit, retrieve it, get back up, move it to his left fingers, reach down with his right hand to grab her right wrist, stretch to try to reach her left wrist without losing his balance, use his left hand to kind of push her left arm towards the center, gather up her left wrist in the same hand as he held her right, reach up with a thumb and finger on his right hand to get the cable tie from his left hand, manage, somehow, to get the two-headed hydra of crossed wrists and balled fists through the oval, pull down on the end of the tie to tighten it, realize he'd put it on upside down so pulling on the end accomplished nothing at all, and instead pull up on it until it was snug around her wrists.

In 16 seconds Fiona could have killed him twice and tidied up.

Back on the screen, Neal released his grip on Fi, panting a little. Fi jerked away and spun around to face the camera she knew Michael was using to watch this little performance. Now her face was perfectly visible. As were her middle fingers.

Recovered, Neal strutted to Fi and tried to push her down. No talking or fighting or anything. Just push her down. Neal didn't succeed, because Fi wasn't five and this wasn't a playground. Now Fi was starting to look really, really mad. Even on the black-and-white screen, you could tell her neck was pinking with rage. She glared at the camera, then she glared at Neal, then she glared some more at the camera, and then she just sat down on the floor. "Yes? The floor?" asked Fi. "You want me on the floor?" Neal nodded, careful to avoid eye contact.

Back in the viewing room in real time, Michael paused the playback. Fi had calmed down enough to join the rest of the class. She scooted a chair to Neal and sat down, stretching her arm out over the back of his chair. Neal started to scoot away, but Fi pulled his chair back to her with one arm, scraping the tile floor loudly. "No, no, no, Neal. You stay with me. I may need to reiterate some of my earlier points."

"So," Michael began. "Talk to me. What just happened there?"

One of the guys, Jason or Clint or something, said, "Seems like he could've tied her wrists faster."

"He could've driven home faster," Fiona snorted. Michael shot her death rays.

"Fair point, Jason/Clint," Michael replied. "Neal? What's your take on it?"

"I mean, yeah, sure, in a perfect world, it would've gone faster. But there was a lot to do and she wasn't helping," Neal said defensively.

"Neal, you're aware she wasn't moving, right?" Michael asked. "She stood totally still and let you fumble and 'accidentally' grab her breast and tie her wrists together." Michael made sure to slow down and use air quotes on _accidentally_. "You want to see what would happen if she were trying to get away? Or even if she just wriggled around to trip you up?" Fi started to stand up, the twinkle finally back in her eye.

"No," Neal whispered.

"Smart man," Michael said, clapping Neal on the shoulder a couple of times. Fi sat back down, pouting.

"Okay, here we go. The duct tape scene. My favorite part," Michael announced, unpausing the playback.

Black-and-white Fi was sitting on the floor, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, staring at Neal, while black-and-white Neal fished around in a fanny pack he was wearing, pack part towards his fanny. He scooched it around his waist to get a better look. They'd packed each other's bags, the eight of them, to simulate real Spy Situations where you have to work with what you got. Michael and Fiona had brought in their junk drawer.

Besides the zip tie he'd already used, whoever packed his was kind enough to give him a Clif bar, an epi pen, a half-used roll of duct tape, four cigarettes (but no lighter), a small coil of detonating cord (but no lighter), a cheap cell phone, three prepaid credit cards, and a fake Kenyan passport. That should come in handy, thought the blue-eyed, tow-headed blonde. He wondered if some people were allergic to Clif bars and that's why he'd need the epi pen.

The class watched the screen as Neal leaned against a wall and stared at Fiona for a while. They watched him look at his right hip suddenly, pull his phone out of his right pants pocket, and look at the screen. They watched him tap his thumbs on the screen for four seconds and then reholster the phone.

In the here and now, Michael asked, "Neal, were you responding to a text in the middle of an operation?" Neal's look to his feet was all the answer Michael needed.

Back to the monitor.

Neil arranged all his spy swag on the table in front of him. He picked up the Clif bar, looked at the back of the wrapper for a bit, then returned it to its spot on the table. Checking the ingredient list for peanut products, maybe?

"Neal," a distorted voice interrupted. Remember, the voice came into Fi's and Neal's room, which then got even more distorted as it returned to the viewing room through the playback monitor. Neal picked up his head and shifted his eyes upwards, trying to locate the sound. "Neal, the woman with you is former IRA. That's not her cover. That's real. You might want to move it along before she decides you look English enough."

"Roger that," Neal replied, saluting. Neal picked up the roll of duct tape, unstuck about eight inches, and ripped it off. Then he walked backwards a couple of steps to Fiona, bent down, and stuck the tape over the majority of her lower face. Catching a lot of hair. He kneaded it into her cheeks a bit. Fi rolled her eyes. Neal turned and walked out of the frame towards the door. And that's when Fiona started inspecting her hands.

Michael paused it there. "Why did you tape her mouth?"

"Because I didn't have a bandana or anything to use as a gag," answered Neal.

Okay. Michael realized he needed to slow it down even more. "Neal, what was supposed to happen during this exercise?" Michael asked.

"We were supposed to get her to tell us where she was hiding the thumb drive."

"Did you give her a pen and paper?" Michael said.

"No," Neal said.

"Does she know sign language?" Michael asked patiently. Not all that patiently, actually.

"I don't know," Neal shrugged. "She seems to know a lot of stuff."

"That's true," Fi said proudly. "That may be the only thing you got right today."

"Fi," Michael warned. He sighed. "Okay, Neal, we're not communicating here. I know you're not a field agent and I know you prefer to sit behind your screen and watch people in eastern Europe doing bizarre shit, but seriously. Seriously. You are working for your government. **My **government. Tell me you aren't this clueless."

Neal didn't tell him that.

Michael leaned his neck all the way back and looked at the ceiling. "Anyone?" he asked weakly.

"She can't talk if her mouth is taped," said Kathryn, the shorter of the two female analysts.

"Yes. Yes!" Michael replied a little too excitedly. "She . . . can't . . . **talk** . . . if her mouth . . . is **taped**," he repeated. At least one of them got it. All hope was not lost. He might not need to move to Tuvalu after all. "Neal, what do you need to do to get someone to tell you something?" Michael asked.

"Um, well, make sure their mouth isn't taped," Neal offered.

"Definitely a start. What else?"

"Look, sir, if you're going to say I have to waterboard someone, I really will have to lodge a complaint somewhere because I'm not down with that," Neal said quickly.

"Nobody's telling you to waterboard the guy, Neal," Michael assured him. "Shut up, Fi," he said in the same breath, because he heard her clear her throat to speak. "So? What?"

"I guess you'd have to do a psych profile on them, figure out if you should be their friend or scream at them, that kind of thing. It would take a while."

"Neal, buddy, in the interest of time, I'm gonna skip the Socratic method and just tell you all the ways you fucked up. Sound good?" Michael asked.

"Uhhh . . . "

"Good. Here we go. First, Neal, you're gonna have to work on your coordination. The monitor says you took 16 seconds from the time you first touched her til the time you let go. Trust me when I tell you she could have killed you three times in 16 seconds."

Fi beamed with pride at Michael's adding a third to her count.

"Second, and this is more a matter of experience, but if you want someone's hands to stay tied, you can't let them cross their wrists. That'll increase the diameter of the zip tie when it's all fastened. And my bet is she tensed up her arms when you did it, 'cause that'll make everything a little bigger as well. Then later they just relax their arms and uncross their wrists and voila! Instant wiggle room."

Seven eager beavers sat rapt, alternating between writing furiously on their notepads and gazing at Michael like he was Elvis. Neal was listening, but he was fidgety and sweaty, and he desperately wished he could be very far from Fiona.

"I can show you how, Neal," Fiona offered, reaching for something – probably a zip tie, hopefully not a gun – in her purse. "Won't take any time at all. Give me your hands."

"Don't give her your hands, Neal. Fiona, behave. Moving along," Michael said. "She was able to take off the tape. What'd she use to take off the tape?"

"Her hands," Neal said.

"And how was she able to get her hands to her face?"

"She lifted them up," they all said, starting to like this game.

"And could she have lifted them up and reached her face if her arms had been . . . behind her?" Michael's voice went up the scale on the final two words, and he ended his question with a pregnant pause.

Oh.

"Yeah. Rule number two about tying someone up. If you need to make it so somebody can't use their hands, tie their hands in the **back**," Michael explained slowly. "It's not a guarantee that they won't be able to use them. I mean, I could use them. But it definitely makes it harder. You tie them in the front if you're trying to be nice and/or you don't want to deal with the paperwork if they get nerve damage from having them in the back. Okay, so, those are some tacti - "

"I must interject," Fiona announced, "on behalf of Neal's next victim." She stood up to speak, because that's what teachers do. "A, you do not need half a foot of tape to cover a tiny woman's perfect, petite mouth. You need **maybe** four inches. So save your tape, because you may need it later. Or hell, if you want to use more than necessary, use the whole bloody roll. Make a statement."

Michael hung his head.

Fiona continued. "B, if you actually want to silence the person, you don't use tape. You use drugs. You make sure you know what you're doing so you don't accidentally kill them, and then you stab them with a syringe full of – " Fiona stopped abruptly. "I'm not going to tell you what, because I suspect you will in fact kill someone accidentally."

Michael couldn't help but agree with her.

"And **finally**," Fiona said dramatically, "if you don't have drugs but you still need to silence someone, you have to figure out some way to fill their mouth so that their cries for help or jingoistic rants are absorbed. Now, this is an opportunity for creativity. It's performance art, really."

Sixteen young eyes were fixed on Fi, entranced. Michael thought this would an appropriate time to stop her. "Okay, Fi, thank you. I'd like to move to –"

"Michael, this is the fourth time I've allowed myself to be mauled in the name of supporting your career. I am damn well going to finish my thought." Fiona turned back towards the students. "As. I. Was. Saying," she said theatrically, shooting daggers at Michael. "Be creative. I once was holding a bail jumper for a few hours waiting for the bondsman's office to open. This cretin was operating a dogfighting ring. His voice bothered me, so I shoved a fistful of puppy chow in his mouth before I taped it shut," Fiona said proudly. "I mean, even he had to appreciate the artistry in that. And then, when he started to drool, I – "

"FIONA GLENANNE. ENOUGH," ordered Michael. "You are nearing the point where we can be charged as accessories." Fi rolled her eyes and dropped back to her chair.

At that point Michael pulled a chair to the area he'd been standing, turned it backwards, and sat down straddling it. "So. You had some tactical mistakes. They're easy enough to fix. Well, usually. We'll have to see about you, Neal. You may need to find some friends to practice on," Michael said sympathetically. "I recommend you do not ask Fiona," he added. "But there's a bigger problem here," Michael continued. "Neal, what was the assignment again?"

"Find out where she hid the thumb drive."

"Did you ask her where she hid it?"

"No."

"Did you tell her you wanted to know where it was?"

"No."

"Did you say anything at all in that room except 'Roger that.'?"

"I forget," Neal admitted.

"No," Michael said. "No, you didn't, Neal. You don't know this woman's name. What her job is. Where her loyalty lies. Why she has this thumb drive. What's **on** the thumb drive. You know **nothing**," he declared. "Fi?"

Fiona stretched out her leg to access the front right pocket of her jeans, stuck her hand in the pocket, and pulled out a thumb drive with a green case. She offered it to Neal. Neal didn't take it. Fi shrugged and returned it to her pocket.

"Neal, what made you think you were supposed to bind and gag one of your instructors?" Michael asked.

"'Cause there were like 6 rolls of duct tape and an entire box of zip ties in that big box of stuff you guys gave us to pack the bags," Neal said, a little loudly. "I had one, so I thought I should use it. And then it just made sense to use the tape."

"You also had my det cord," Fiona interrupted. "And I want it back." Neal unzipped his fanny pack immediately and complied with Fi's demand.

"Neal, you had money, food, cigarettes, a phone, and a way to stop anaphylaxis if need be. I would start with any one of those next time. Pay her. Flirt with her. Give her a bunch of peanuts and if she passes out then save her life with the epi pen," Michael suggested. "You catch more flies with honey."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall and announced, "We're done for today. Tomorrow we're going to learn how to play dumb if you're being interrogated." Michael smiled. "Should be a pretty easy day."


	3. Challenge extended

After walking the halls a bit to say their hellos, Michael and Fiona headed home. Fiona drove. Michael braced for impact. The drive was comfortably quiet. It was a fairly pleasant evening, as Miami goes. The sun was maybe an hour from setting.

After 10 minutes or so, they arrived at their very, very yellow 2 br/2 ba home on Hibiscus Street. Once Fiona knew Michael would be in town for at least a year, she announced their loft over a nightclub was a revolting pit, she couldn't believe she'd ever lived there, and they were moving, immediately if not sooner. She insisted on a second toilet in her home, and she didn't mean the great outdoors. And a bathtub, one she could relax in, not one they used to preserve corpses when need be. Michael needed projects, and there was something growing in the southeast corner of the loft – something different than what was already growing behind the sink – so he didn't protest.

Within two hours of Fi's proclamation, she and Michael were sitting down to drinks with Sam Axe, buddy extraordinaire, so he could find them a house. Sam was the kind of person who knew of houses lying around. So it was no surprise when Sam had a real estate buddy who knew a guy at his old agency who had a client whose mother was looking to leave her house, um, quickly. Michael and Fi didn't want **that** house, because that one was apparently the subject of some inquiries by both the IRS and ATF. Hence the rapid departure. But, they were happy to hear that this lady had a friend who'd just died unexpectedly and now there was a vacant house. Well, not happy she died, obviously. The house looked good, apart from being very, very yellow. It would meet their needs, which was one bedroom for them, one bedroom for their weapons, and, you know, all the stuff regular people want in a house. Stacks of cash behind the drywall in the loft were exhumed, Barry the Money Launderer Slash Financial Consultant was called, some Seychelles banks got some new accounts, and some stucco primer and Behr 3103-E Ripe Wheat paint was purchased. The wheels were in motion.

They hadn't repainted the house yet. Michael was waiting, some would say passive-aggressively, for Fi to offer to paint the house, since she was the one who wanted the house. Michael and Fi did not live in a world where painting the house was the guy's job by default. Usually the unpleasant jobs went to whichever one of them was more to blame for their most recent fight. But she hadn't offered, and he wasn't in the mood to argue about it, so the primer and paint sat in the second bedroom along with their armory.

Fi guided the car into their driveway. They got out of the car and were almost to the front door when Michael's cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, saw MOM on the screen, took and released a deep breath, and pressed the green button. "Hello?"

"I have mononucleosis," said a husky-voiced lounge singer.

Michael has very good hearing, but he figured he'd heard that wrong. "Hello?" he said, wondering if, in 2013, on a cell phone, it was possible to have crossed wires.

"You said that already, Michael," said his mom, whose smoker's voice sounded considerably worse than usual.

"What did you say, Mom?"

"I have mo-no-nu-cle-o-sis," Madeline enunciated, as if teaching a little kid a new word.

"You're not 14."

"I know that, Michael," she croaked.

"Have you been kissing a 14 year old?" Michael asked, genuinely confused.

"Don't be an idiot, Michael. Adults can get it."

"How in the world did you contract mono?"

"Remember when I went to visit your Aunt Jill about five weeks ago? Before Charlie got here? Her grandson Jeffrey came over a couple of times. We were out in the back around the pool, and everybody kept picking up the wrong cup. You see, Michael, that's why I've always said you need to get some of those little wine glass ID tags for when you entertain."

"When I enter**tain**? Wh – " Michael shook his head in disbelief. "Mom, can we focus? So what happened?"

"Well, I guess Jeffrey **had** been kissing a 14 year old," Madeline surmised, "because Jill said two weeks ago the doctor told him **he** had mono, and that's what my guy told me today."

Fiona had already gone in the house. Michael realized he was still outside, so he went in as well. Fi was in the kitchen staring at the contents of the refrigerator while she leaned on its door.

"Jeez, Mom, I'm sorry to hear that. So what are you supposed to do?"

"Wait to die."

Michael leaned his head all the way back and tried to summon the strength to not yell at his sick mother.

"Nothing, Michael. It's a horrible virus and I just have to live through it."

"Wow. I really am sorry, Mom," Michael said sincerely. "You need anything?"

"Yes. You have to take Charlie."

Michael was silent while he tried to process that information. "What?"

"Charlie can't stay with me. I'm totally contagious, and if he hasn't already gotten it, he will if he stays here. And I can't take care of him. I can barely move. You and Fiona need to come get him so he can stay with you."

"Wait. How is Charlie going to stay here? Who's going to take care of him?"

"Michael, put Fiona on the phone," Madeline sighed.

Fi had moved on to staring into the pantry, so Michael moved the few steps over to her, tapped her on the shoulder with his phone, and handed it to her, his mouth still open in confusion.

"Hi, Madeline. How are you? . . . Seriously? . . . No, I didn't realize adults could get it. I suppose there's no reason they couldn't, though. How do you think you got it? . . . Yeah, I remember. . . . Ohhhhhhh. . . . Yeah, that sounds right. . . . Oh, I know! ID tags! Or put a Sharpie out so people can write their names. . . . Right, if it's a plastic cup. . . . No, no, of course he can't stay there. . . . Yeah, I think that makes the most sense. . . . Why did Michael think you needed to talk to me? . . . Yeah . . . Mm-hmm . . . Oh, Jesus, Madeline, tell me he didn't say that. . . . He did. . . . Right. Of course he did. . . . Okay, well, shall we come get him now? . . . Okay. . . . Yeah . . . Yeah, we've got that pasta he likes. . . . Right, and we'll pick up some milk at some point. . . . Oh, that's right!" Fiona laughed heartily. "Oh, Michael will be delighted to hear that. We should sell tickets. . . . Well, let us get organized and we'll leave in a few minutes, okay? . . . Okay, we'll see you soon. Love you. . . . Bye."

Fi pressed the red button and threw the phone at Michael's chest.

"Why did you act like a moron on the phone? Whaddya mean, 'who's going to take care of him?'? Who do you **think** is going to take care of him?"

"Fi, we're not set up to take care of a child. We don't know **how** to take care of a child," Michael said mournfully.

"Michael, don't be ridiculous. What's the alternative? Hmmm? That's right; there isn't one. Of course we can take care of a child. We know battlefield medicine. We've been in the trenches. We know how long a person can go without food or water. We can certainly take care of him."

"I know we can keep him alive, Fi," Michael sighed. "Normal people aim higher than that."

"Look, this is happening. You can make a list of all the things we don't know what we're doing, or you can use that energy to figure out what we're doing. You said you wanted to get to know him," Fiona reminded Michael.

"Not how I meant, Fi. I meant playing trains with him for an hour every few days and going to my mom's house for dinner a couple of times a week. I know how to play trains. I certainly know how to eat. I do not know how to take care of a child in any way except keeping its airway clear and making sure it's hydrated."

Fiona had walked to their guest bedroom during Michael's soliloquy to assess the situation. The rifles were hanging from a pot rack she'd installed on the ceiling. All the handguns were on the shelves of the bookcases the former owner's family didn't want. They'd dragged Michael's workbench in the room, and it was currently covered with loose ammo Fi'd been meaning to put into some great little boxes she'd gotten from the dollar aisles at Target.

So it was clear.

"Charlie can't sleep in here," Fiona announced. "We can't get this cleaned up fast enough. He'll have to sleep with us until we can figure out what to do with all this."

"How's he going to sleep with us?"

"You want a diagram?"

"No, Fi, but Nate told me it's dangerous to sleep with your kid because you can roll over on them and suffocate them," Michael said, the concern evident in his voice.

Fiona smiled. "That's for infants, Michael. Charlie's two and a half. Toddlers are much more vocal when you roll over on them."

Michael nodded his head, thinking that through. That made sense. "How do you know that, Fi? How do you know any of this?"

"I'm Irish and Catholic and one of 19 cousins on my mum's side alone. I've been around children."

Michael nodded again, then walked out to the living room and surveyed their small house. "What about when we're working?"

"Well, he goes to school in the morning, and they have the option for him to stay for the afternoon as well. We'll start with his regular schedule, and if it seems like the right thing to do, we'll add the afternoons. And we just won't work when we have him. The CIA can wait a month if need be. Or Sam and Jesse can substitute teach. And as for our other jobs – I don't know, I guess we'll just take a vacation. It's just a month." Fiona came to stand next to him. She leaned her head near his shoulder and put her arm around his waist and squeezed. "This will be fine, Michael. We'll figure it out. We can call your mom if we don't know something. Sam and Jesse already act like children, so they'll love it. It'll be fine." She squeezed him again.

Michael's face relaxed into an easy smile. He bent his neck and kissed the top of her head. "All right, between four able-bodied adults and a diseased senior citizen, we can probably do this."

"Good. Okay. We need to make a plan. You either need to leave your mom the Charger and we take her car or we need to take the car seat out of her car and install it in mine," Fiona instructed. "Charlie can eat something there before we leave or we'll take him out or we'll just scrounge something up here. Your mom said she's packing a few days' worth of clothes and stuff for him for us to take tonight. We'll get the rest once we get organized. Hmmm. What else." Fi sat down on the coffee table and closed her eyes, mentally walking through Madeline's house to figure out what Charlie would need. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe I forgot this. That's what I was laughing about before."

"What?"

"Charlie's potty training."


	4. Challenge accepted

Michael pulled the Charger into his mom's driveway a little after 7:00. They were going to switch cars for a couple of days. Seemed easier than switching out the car seat at dusk. Fi heaved the big passenger door open when the engine stopped and got out. She slammed the door closed out of habit, not looking at it. She looked around to grab Michael's hand. He wasn't there, so she peered in through the passenger window. He was still in the driver's seat. Still had his seatbelt on.

"Michael, what?"

"Are you sure this is what we should do? I mean, what would happen to a little kid whose mom got mono and there was no family around? Maybe we could hire a nurse or a nanny or something. Surely in Miami, we'd have our pick of nurses who take care of old people."

Fiona let her head go down, her hair cascading around her face. "Michael, get out of the car. Nobody would work for your mother for more than three days. This is fine. You'll be fine."

Michael inhaled deeply, opened his door, and stepped out slowly. He moved even more slowly to his mom's lawn.

They made it to the front door and went in the house. They were immediately aurally assaulted by something screaming. Michael instinctively went into battle mode, protecting his head and preparing to push Fi to the ground, and then he noticed the TV. A black man in an orange hat and orange body suit appeared to be DJing for five bizarre, non-human, dancing creatures. They were all different colors. The camera angles alternated between healthy distances and painful close-ups. Michael thought the whole thing looked like an acid trip.

He turned, horrified, to his mom, who was putting piles of little clothes into a Toy Story suitcase. "What the hell is that?" Michael asked.

"Yo Gabba Gabba," Madeline replied.

"Should that be on when Charlie's home?" Michael wondered aloud.

"Michael, it's a show **for **kids," his mom said. "They like the colors and the movement."

"We used to use something like that to drive our prisoners nuts before we started interrogating them," Michael said wistfully, still staring at the TV. "'Yo Gabba Gabba,' you said? I gotta remember that."

"Where's Charlie, speaking of which?" asked Fiona.

"He's in his room packing. He told me it was very important for him to bring his important things," explained Maddie. "You should probably go supervise."

Fiona took Michael's hand and pulled him down the hall. Charlie's room was Michael's old room. Nate's old room was closer to the master bedroom, but Madeline couldn't have anybody in Nate's room yet. From the doorway, they saw Charlie's back. He was sitting on his haunches in the middle of his train rug, his back curved forward as he studied something near his knees. Madeline had already dressed him in his jammies – dark blue pants with small gray guitars all over them and a short-sleeved, two-toned shirt proclaiming Charlie to be a FUTURE ROCK STAR.

"Hi, Charlie!" said Fiona cheerfully. "How are you doing?"

Charlie didn't turn around. "Edwuhd wee bwoke." [Translation for those who are new to two-year-old boys: _Edward's wheel broke._]

"Who's Edward?" Fiona asked, sitting down next to Charlie. Charlie held up a blue train about three inches long. Michael stared at it because it had a face. "Ohhhhhh, Edward from _Thomas the Tank Engine_. What happened to his wheel?" Fiona asked. Michael was still in the doorway. He looked confused. Again. Still.

"Edwuhd wuhsh goin ovuh dis ting, dis bidge, an hizh wee gah tuck," said Charlie, patting some wooden train tracks. [_Edward was going over this thing, this bridge, and his wheel got stuck._]

"Oh, I see. May I see him?" Fiona extended her open hand to Charlie. Michael gathered she knew what Charlie was saying. He had no idea. Charlie gave Fiona his toy. "Ahh, yes, I see the problem. This rubber band thingamajiggie came off," she said, inspecting the train's underside. "Let me just slip that back on and . . . done! There you go, Charlie."

"Yay, Edwuhd wuhks! Teefee fix!" _Teefee_ was what Charlie called Fiona. Everyone referred to her as Auntie Fi. He dropped the _an_ part and just said the last part: _tie Fi. Teefee._

"Yep, Edward works now. Charlie, looks who's here! Look who's at your door," Fiona said, smiling.

Charlie twisted his head around. "Uncuh Micuh!" Charlie bolted up, practically knocking Fi over as he did. He ran to the door and threw his arms around Michael's thighs.

"Hi, Charlie," Michael said, awkwardly patting Charlie's back. "How are you?"

"I seep yuh housh." Michael looked over Charlie's head to Fiona, panicked. It was like Spanish.

"Yes, Charlie, that's right," Fiona said, getting to her feet and walking to the Charlie-Uncuh Micuh unit. "You're going to sleep at our house. Is that okay with you? Do you want that?"

"Yah! I seep dair!"

"Great! We're going to have so much fun!" Fiona looked back in to the room. "Charlie, Grandma Maddie said you were packing your important things to take to our house. Are they ready?"

"Yah, I got dis!" Charlie let go of Michael's legs and held up Edwuhd.

"Yes, definitely bring Edward. Do you want to bring anything else?"

Charlie looked around. He ran to his bed, because two-year-old boys always run, never walk, and got a stuffed dog. Then, from his floor, he got a magnet that said VANCOUVER! in cheerful letters, a souvenir from Sam's Alaskan cruise with his lady friend, Elsa, and the hat from his police officer costume, a current favorite. "I weddy!"

Fiona stifled a laugh. "Okay, you got your dog and your magnet and your hat! Let's go find Grandma Maddie!" Charlie ran down the hall. Fiona followed him. Michael stood where he was, still very confused by what had just happened.

"Okay, here's his suitcase," Maddie said, handing the little case to Fiona. "It's got clothes and PJs and water stuff for when they have splash day at school. And that big suitcase by the door has a bunch of toys and books and stuff. And grab that cooler from the kitchen counter. I packed a bunch of the food he likes. Wait, his shoes. What did I do with his shoes?" Maddie thought for a moment. "Oh, jeez, he's wearing them. Okay. There's also a few packs of underwear in there. So for school you need to send his little backpack with a couple pairs of underwear for him to wear during the day while he's potty training. He's got a whole pack of pull-ups already at school. His teachers are really good at this, so just do what they tell you to do and don't mess with their system. He's been doing pretty well so far. Hmmm. What else. Oh, well, I guess you need the potty!" Maddie laughed, then started to cough and choke. Once she could breathe, she said, "Michael, get it from the bathroom, would you, sweetheart?"

Michael's daze broke when he heard his name. "Get the what?" he asked.

"Michael. Focus. Go into the bathroom and get the little white plastic chair thing with the bowl inside it," Madeline instructed. "That's what Charlie uses to pee and poop."

"Mom, we have a toilet. Two of them. I mean, I know you think we live primitively, but we do have running water and everything," Michael pointed out.

"Oh my god, Michael, you're killing me. Fiona, please help him do this, okay? Please don't let him try to do this by himself," Madeline pleaded.

"Don't worry, Madeline, your son is only temporarily stupid. He'll be fine once the shock wears off," Fiona assured her. "Michael. Little children aren't usually comfortable on a regular toilet. My oldest cousin's son used to fall in. They need their own little chair to sit on to go to the bathroom."

"Or you can get a soft seat topper," Madeline offered helpfully. "I've been meaning to get one and just haven't had a chance to get over to Babies R Us. Oh, you've got to see them, Michael. They're just darling. You can get them with Elmo or Disney characters or anything, really, and some of them even play sounds when the kid goes! Isn't that incredible? When you boys were little, we didn't have anything like that. I just had to hold you on and make sure you didn't fall in."

Michael had started to feel somewhat more focused, but thinking about an Elmo toilet seat that played music when he peed was fast returning him to the safety of oblivion. "Okay, I get it. Just – I'll go get the thing. Don't talk about it anymore." He walked into the bathroom he and Nate used to share, found the plastic contraption on the floor, and picked it up. That's when he realized something.

"Wait, how does this connect to the plumbing? Is there an adapter or something?" Michael inquired, inspecting the potty from all sides.

"Michael." Maddie put her head in her hands. "Oh my god, Michael, this isn't complicated. It's self-contained. It doesn't hook in to the plumbing," she explained. "The bowl fits over the rim of the chair. Charlie sits on it. He pees or poops. The pee or poop goes into the bowl. He gets up. You throw the pee or poop into the regular toilet. You flush. You clean the bowl. Done." She said all that very, very slowly.

Michael was starting to get that fuzzy look again.

"Oh, but don't forget you have to tell him what a good boy he is for going tee-tee and poo-poo on the potty. And a lot of time he likes to dump it in the toilet himself and do the flush, but sometimes he's a little off so some of the pee might run down the side of the toilet onto the floor. So just watch out for that. Oh and the other day there was this smell in the bathroom and I just **couldn't** **find** what was there!" Madeline went on, pausing dramatically between _couldn't_ and _find_. "But eventually I saw this little piece of poop – like a little pooplet, I guess – that had fallen behind the tank so watch out for that, too. It's very important to heap praise on him, Michael. You have to make it very exciting and positive and safe for him. Otherwise he can become anal retentive and have to go to the emergency room," cautioned Maddie.

Michael knew very little about the toileting habits of children, obviously, but he seriously doubted his not being enough of a cheerleader for Charlie would necessitate a trip to the hospital. And he knew for damn sure he couldn't say _tee-tee_ or _poo-poo_. Or _pooplet_.

Oh, but Maddie wasn't finished. "Now, at school they give them one M&M for peeing in the potty and two for pooping. And if they go a whole day without an accident, they get a lollipop. So you probably want to stop by a drugstore or something to get some M&Ms and lollipops. And don't you give him a hard time about the sugar, Michael. I know you prefer kale and _keen-oh-ah_, but you give that boy some candy if he wants it. Not yogurt. Yogurt is not a treat."

Michael was now just staring ahead, not making eye contact or focusing on anything.

"All right, is that it? I guess that's it. Can you think of anything else?" Maddie asked Fiona, having realized it was better to leave Michael out of the conversation.

"No, everything sounds in order. We can certainly improvise if we need to for a few days," Fiona said.

"Wait, the daycare badge. You're on the list of people who can pick Charlie up but you still have to have a special badge. Let me find my purse." Madeline disappeared down the hall to her bedroom.

"Michael, you're good. Are you good? This will be **fine**," Fiona said, uncharacteristically warmly. Michael nodded a little but didn't say anything.

"Found it! Here you go." Maddie handed a laminated card on a lanyard to Fiona. "Okay, I guess that's it. I just feel like I'm forgetting something. Maybe he needs some more clothes in case you don't have time to do laundry. You think?" Maddie wondered aloud.

"Mom, in a lot of places in the world, children travel with their skin and that's it. He doesn't need any more stuff," said Michael, pretty snidely for a person who, to this point, had contributed nothing of value to the discussion and shown himself to be incompetent.

Madeline ignored him. "Fiona, if you need more stuff, just call me and we'll figure something out. Oh, and he usually goes to bed around 9:00. He takes a really good nap around 1:00, like two or two and a half hours, so he's generally not that tired in the evening."

"1:00 nap and 9:00 bed. Got it. Everything will be fine, Madeline. You just rest and let us know if you need anything." Modulating her voice about an octave up, Fi enthusiastically said, "Okay, Charlie! Are you ready to go to our house with me and Uncle Michael?"

Charlie had been playing with a couple of trains on the floor all the time the adults were talking, zoned out, unaware of any of the complexities of toilets and daycare badges. Michael was envious.

"Yah yah yah yah yah! Les go!"

"Throw me kisses, Charlie!" said Maddie, her eyes tearing up. "I love you so much! You're going to have a **great** time with Auntie Fi and Uncle Michael! Will you call me tomorrow to tell me about school?"

"Okay, I caw mawoh. Les go, Teefee!" Charlie urged, grabbing his aunt's hand and trying to pull her out the back door. All the while, he kept murmuring, "Les go Teefee! Les go Teefee! Les go Teefee!"

Michael turned back to his mother, who had already flopped onto her couch. "All right, I guess we're going. You sure you don't want us to get someone in here?" Michael asked, handing Madeline the key to the Charger.

"No, Michael, I'm sure. Thank you, though, honey." Maddie was quiet for a moment, trying to conserve what was left of her energy. Then she said, "Well, there's one good thing in all of this. Now that Charlie's not here, I can smoke whenever I want."

"Jesus Christ, Mom. Your entire body is plagued by disease, and you want to add carcinogens to the mix?"

"Can you think of a better time to want the comfort of a cigarette than when your entire body is plagued by disease?"

Michael shook his head and turned to leave. "Bye," he called. "We'll check in tomorrow."

"Bye, sweetheart. You're gonna be fine."


	5. Denny's

After Michael had loaded up Madeline's trunk and Fiona had finally figured out how to operate the 5-point harness of Charlie's car seat, they were on their way. Fiona turned around to talk to Charlie. "Charlie, are you hungry?"

"Yah."

"What would you like to eat?" Fiona asked.

"Macawoni an cheeeeeesh!" Charlie announced happily.

"I think we can do that. Michael, help me think. Where can we go? At this point it'd be faster than going to the grocery store."

"Why can't we go to Carlito's?"

"I don't think a **bar** is an appropriate place to take a two-year-old for dinner," Fiona snapped. "Just – go a couple of exits up. I think there's a Denny's around there."

Michael did as he was told, and, sure enough, they soon saw the bright yellow sign with cheerful red letters. He parked his mom's car, then waited as Fi helped Charlie out of his seat. If anyone saw them, he thought, they'd just assume he and Fi were Charlie's parents. They may not make any other assumptions - in 2013 they probably wouldn't even assume they were married – but they'd believe without a moment's thought that Charlie was their son. That felt surreal to Michael.

Charlie took one hand from each of them and bounced across the parking lot. Michael and Fi were still on their feet, but they were moving a little more slowly than earlier in the day, and they definitely weren't bouncing. Charlie was sapping their energy without doing a thing.

Inside, a host showed them to a booth near a window. Charlie scampered onto a bench and crawled to the window. Michael sat across from him. Fi looked at Michael for a couple of seconds, hoping he would catch her unspoken message that he should sit next to his nephew so she wouldn't have to verbalize that message, loudly, in front of Charlie, but he didn't. So Fi sat next to Charlie. The host lay a colorfully printed menu/activity sheet combo in front of Charlie, along with four crayons. Charlie started coloring the paper immediately. The menu had pictures of all the kid's meal choices. Michael spoke to Charlie, the first time he'd said more than a couple of words to the kid in almost an hour: "Charlie, I see a picture of macaroni and cheese. Just like you wanted. Would you like me to ask the waiter to bring you some?"

"Pampapes," Charlie replied, without looking up from his coloring.

Michael took a few seconds and realized Charlie was saying _pancakes_. "Pancakes? No, remember you said you wanted macaroni and cheese. That's why we came here."

"Pampapes."

"Ch – " Michael began.

"Michael," Fiona interrupted. "He changed his mind. Now he wants pancakes. Right, Charlie? Do you want pancakes?"

"Yah. Pampapes macawoni an cheesh."

"Wait, Charlie, put your crayon down for a second and look at me. Okay. Do you want pancakes or do you want macaroni and cheese?" Fiona asked.

"Ee bofe."

"'Ee bofe,'" Fiona repeated softly, trying to figure out what he meant. "Oh, eat both? You want to eat both of them?"

"Yah ee bofe pampapes macawoni an cheesh."

"You're supposed to pick just one, Charlie," Michael said.

"No, ee bohhhhhhhhhhfe." And with that, the whining began. Which led to crying punctuated by some screaming. Which led to Michael and Fiona looking like they were about to throw up.

"What are we supposed to do?" Michael whispered to Fi angrily.

"What makes you think I know?" Fi half-whispered half-spat back. "If he were an adult, I'd just smack him. I obviously can't do that."

"Well, we can't just let him scream here," Michael said, still in a heated whisper.

"But we can't give in to what he wants because then he'll learn to pitch a fit to get what he wants," retorted Fi.

"**You're** the one who wanted to bring him here, Fiona," Michael spat.

A waitress – CHARITY, according to her nametag – approached the table. "You all know what you'd like? How 'bout you, buddy? Whatcha gonna have?"

Neither Michael nor Fiona had noticed Charlie had stopped crying and was coloring again.

"Dis!" said Charlie, pointing to the picture of pizza on the menu.

Michael leaned his head all the way back and Fiona put hers down on the table.

"All righty, one pepperoni pizza for my handsome friend!" Charity replied, smiling. "What would you like for your side? You want some grapes? Or some carrot sticks? Or – "

"Just bring anything," Michael said quickly. "Anything at all."

"Ummm, okay. How about for Mom and Dad?"

"Hemlock," said Michael.

"I'm sorry?" said Charity, furrowing her brow.

"Iced tea, please," Michael responded flatly.

"Okay, I gotcha. And for you, ma'am?"

"You don't have any vodka back there, do you?" Fiona asked hopefully.

"I wish," said Charity.

"Hot tea, then," sighed Fi.

"You got it. I'll be back with your drinks in just a minute."

As Charity left, Michael and Fiona both looked at Charlie. Charlie continued coloring, and he was also singing himself a song. It was as if the last three minutes had never happened.

Oh, if wishing made it so.


	6. Grow the fuck up

The Glenanne-Westen Party of 3 had somehow made it through dinner and were now headed home. Charlie had fallen asleep in his car seat before they were out of the parking lot. Michael and Fi were silent on the drive, partly to avoid waking Charlie and partly to each take some quiet time to reflect on the enormity of their Situation. Capital S.

They reached their very, very yellow house – which was much more tolerable at night, so there was that – and got out of the car. Michael opened the trunk and started to unload. Fi was next to him in a flash. "No way. You have to take him in. I will do this."

"What's the difference?" Michael asked. "I'm already here."

"Well, I could tell you that he has a better chance of staying asleep if you hold him, because you're bigger and broader and have a longer torso and the move won't be as jarring to his body as it would if I moved him, which is true, by the way. Or I could tell you that you are his goddamn uncle and you need to start acting like it," Fiona hissed. "You barely speak to him on the way to the restaurant. You don't sit next to him at dinner. Your aloof spy thing is cute sometimes and we all get a good laugh at how stupid you can be when it comes to personal relationships, but he's two. He's two years old. You can be distant all you want with me because I can tell you how much it pisses me off and I can beat you up if I feel like it. He can't. He's Two. Years. Old. As of today he has lost **every** adult in his life. You are his family and you are the **only** man in that child's life. So grow the fuck up and hold your nephew." Fiona started jerking stuff out of the trunk and tossing it on their lawn.

Michael stood silently, a lump in his throat. His eyes were glassy with water as he looked at her for a moment. Without a word, he took a few steps, opened the passenger back seat door, and unbuckled Charlie's seat belt. Bending his upper body into the car, he put his hands under Charlie's armpits and slowly and awkwardly lifted the little boy out of his seat, out of the car, and onto his chest. A soft groan escaped from Charlie as his head fell naturally onto Michael's right shoulder. Michael cradled Charlie's bottom under his left forearm and rubbed his back with his right hand as he walked to the front door and waited for Fiona to come with the key.

* * *

Michael and Charlie stood against the living room wall as Fi brought the last of Charlie's bags in and dumped it in the middle of the room. She pushed her hair back from her sweaty face and took a couple of cleansing breaths as she took stock of the room. "Let's just leave all this 'til tomorrow," she said. "He's already dressed for bed." She walked over and gently removed Charlie's shoes and socks, letting each of them fall to the floor. "Come on."

Michael followed her into their bedroom and carefully laid Charlie in the middle of their unmade bed. "Are we supposed to change his diaper?" he asked quietly. "I don't want to wake him up."

"Well, **that** I can do. That's where the Irish Catholic megafamily comes in handy. I've changed probably a thousand nappies. I think your mom put a new pack in that Publix bag over there."

Michael got one and handed it to her. He stared in awe as Fi wiggled Charlie's pants off, unfastened the tapes on the diaper he was wearing, moved it aside, opened the other diaper and flattened it, gathered Charlie's ankles in her left hand and lifted his whole lower half, slid the new diaper under his bum, put his legs down, brought the bottom of the diaper up through his legs, fastened the tapes, and put his pajama pants back on. She did it fluidly, without thought. He was even more amazed that Charlie didn't wake up. Michael was confident someone pulling **his** pants down and lifting **his** legs in the air would wake **him** up. Since he worked in a field where sleeping too soundly can mean you sleep forever, Michael had learned early on to sleep lightly. Unfortunately it meant he hadn't slept well in 20 years, but he was still alive, so it seemed like a reasonable sacrifice.

He reached over to get the wet diaper. As he picked it up, he practically did a double take at its weight. It was like 15 times as heavy as the clean diaper. He didn't know which was more incredible – that a 30 pound person could expel that much urine in just a couple of hours or that someone had designed a contraption made of paper that could hold it. He found a plastic grocery bag to put it in, then sealed the bag tightly and dropped it in the garbage can.

Fi lifted Charlie's head gently and put a pillow under it. She found their comforter on the floor and spread it over the bed. Then she turned on the bathroom light and left the door slightly ajar, letting just enough light in the room for them to see what they were doing and for Charlie to find his way out of the room if he woke up. She walked to Michael and took his hand, leading him out of the room. He turned off the overhead light on their way out.

"You hungry?" Michael asked Fiona, walking in to the kitchen.

"Yeah, actually. There wasn't anything too exciting when I was looking before."

"Tea and toast?" he suggested.

"Works for me," she yawned.

Michael slotted four pieces of whole wheat bread into their toaster and pushed the button down. He opened the refrigerator and took out two sealed cups of yogurt. He tossed one to Fiona, then retrieved two spoons from a drawer and brought her one. Fiona ate a few bites of yogurt and then went to put the kettle on to boil.

They didn't really talk. Each just found a task that needed to be done and did it. When the toast popped, Michael piled the slices on a plate and brought it, some strawberry jam, and some peanut butter to the table, along with a couple of knives, and started spreading. Fiona heard the kettle start its shrill whistle and ran to turn it off before it woke Charlie. She poured the boiling water over tea bags in two mismatched mugs and carried them carefully to the table.

Both munched on their toast quietly. After a few moments, Michael spoke. "Fi."

"Mmmm?"

"I heard you before. I heard you. I know in my head everything you said is right. I just – I – I don't know. I'm gonna try. You have to understand I have zero knowledge of how to be a good dad. Or, dad-like, I guess. My dad made me feel either afraid or furious or desperate to leave. That's it. Fight or flight my entire life."

Fiona broke her gaze into Michael's eyes and looked down at her tea, nodding.

"I've never stayed in an important relationship. I left my family. I left Samantha. I left you. I always leave because that's what I'm supposed to do. And I can explain it and justify it and it's really true – I do have to leave for my job – but I know deep down it's what I want to do because I don't know how to stay. And I'm ashamed of that and I'm pissed off at myself that I don't know how to change it and I'm pissed off at my dad because it's because of him. I know I can't leave Charlie. But I know I'll probably have to leave him. And I know I probably **will** leave him because people don't change. So I don't know what – I don't know how to – how to do this. I mean, what's worse for him? Staying away now so he doesn't hurt when I leave? Or getting close and then being yet another person who leaves him? I genuinely don't know. I don't know how to do this."

A few seconds passed before Fi spoke. "I don't know either, Michael. I – I don't know."

More silence. But not awkward silence.

"I mean, I think the answer's easy: Don't leave. Just don't leave," Fi said firmly. "You don't have to. You don't need this job. You can find something else that fulfills you. I know you think you can't, but you can. But I understand right now you can't see that as a real option."

Michael stayed in his seat, staring at his hands and playing with his fingers. Eventually he looked at Fi. "Let's go to bed. I have a feeling we're gonna need the sleep to survive tomorrow."


	7. Crying over spilled tea

Michael woke up with a foot in his neck. Actually, Michael woke up because a foot kicked his neck, but he didn't know that at the time. He had bolted upright, and his hand had instinctively slid under his pillow to find his gun. It wasn't there, which was enough to give him a spike of adrenaline and really wake up. And that's when he remembered Charlie.

Charlie had slept between Michael and Fi. Charlie slept great. Even though his head started off at the headboard and now was on Fi's knees, he was peaceful and breathing deeply.

His bunkmates slept not quite as well. The kick to Michael's neck at 6:15 was preceded around midnight by a kick to his ribs. Fiona wasn't kicked, but she found it hard to ignore Charlie's sleeptalking. Plus, he seemed upset when he yelled, "DAS NOT YUH DOGGY. DAS MY DOGGY!" She hoped he'd dreamkicked the ass of the doggynapper.

The adults' sleep was also less than ideal because they were hypersensitive to noise. Even Michael and Fiona aren't crazy enough to sleep with guns under their pillows and a toddler between them, so the guns were locked away. Michael and Fiona hadn't locked their respective guns away in 20+ years. So they woke every time the air conditioning cycled on or off. Every time a car passed the house. Every time a branch scraped the overhang.

It was a long night.

Michael sat on the edge of the bed, gathering his thoughts. He'd called Sam and Jesse last night to tell them about the Charlie situation and to ask them to teach his class today. His two friends would have the pleasure of watching Neal sweat and twitch his way through a mock interrogation. He'd probably confess to being CIA and name 10 or 12 other people while he was at it. They were going to stop by the house after class to visit with Charlie and, more likely than not, take him out somewhere while his aunt and uncle passed out.

He wondered if his mom had told Ruth what was going on. Last he'd heard, she was off suicide watch but was still pretty fragile. Probably not a good idea to tell her anything that might worry her, like, oh, two childless spies/assassins taking care of her two year old.

Their tasks for the day were simple in concept: take Charlie to school for 9:00 and pick him up at 12:30. In the interim one of them would go to the grocery store to get actual food, and the other would do some down-and-dirty childproofing of the house. Michael and Fiona didn't need plug protectors or drawer latches. Childproofing for them meant collecting the 70+ weapons they'd placed strategically throughout the house, some hidden, some in plain sight, and locking them up somewhere safe.

Michael also needed to sit down with various people at the CIA to explain the situation and get their protection upped. The purpose of the restoration period was for Michael to rest and get himself healthy again, and he couldn't very well do that if he was constantly paranoid about any of his or Fi's scores of enemies coming around to say hello. So the CIA, partnering with any federal agency who had bodyguard-types to spare, had given them their own special detail. All told, some 20 armed government employees took turns watching Maddie and Charlie, Sam and Elsa, Jesse and whomever he might be dating, and, last but by no stretch of the imagination least, Michael and Fiona around the clock. They were quite good at staying out of sight, but boy, they could appear in a flash if they sensed a threat. Jesse's date, Gabby, found that out when she stepped outside a movie theater they were in to take a phone call. The surveillance team didn't have authorization to tap into her call – her being a civilian and U.S. citizen and all – so six of them swarmed her in time to hear an automated message telling her the recent pap smear she'd had was negative. Gabby went home after that, as did Jesse. Not to the same home.

In the afternoon, once he came home from school, Charlie would nap, and Michael and Fi could unpack his things and try to make their house feel like his home.

Michael's phone chirped to let him know he had an incoming text message. "Put C on potty when he wakes. Prob have to sit for 10-15 mins. Remember to clap." He stared at the screen for a moment, appreciating how surreal his life had become in the past 14 hours.

Noises were starting to come from Charlie's general area. His little body began to move and stretch slowly. He sat up and looked at his surroundings, blinking strongly as he got the sleep out of his eyes. He stared down at Fi's lumpy form under the comforter, then turned his head a bit to the side. Michael could see he was frowing. And then Michael saw his eyes begin to fill with water.

"Hey, Charlie," Michael said quickly. Charlie turned to in the direction of the voice. "Hi. There you are. Good morning. Do you know where you are?"

Charlie just stared at him.

"You're at Auntie Fi's and Uncle Michael's house. Do you remember you came home with us last night to sleep here?"

Charlie furrowed his brow for just a second, then smiled. "Yah! I seep yuh housh!" Then he jumped into Michael's chest. That's right; from a stationary, sitting position, he sprung up effortlessly and leapt onto Michael, reaching his arms out as he did. Michael put one hand behind him on the bed to brace himself to keep them both from falling over.

"Wow. Okay. Hi, Charlie. Good morning again. I'm glad to see you." Michael ran out of things to say at that point, or so he thought, so he just kept saying versions of those things while patting Charlie's back. He said them increasingly louder, hoping Fi would wake up. No luck. Fiona, unbeknownst to Michael, had self-medicated with a liqueur around 5:20, hoping to get a couple of hours of solid sleep. He did know, though, that she looked to be sleeping soundly. And he would feel bad if he ruined that. So he stopped trying to wake her up.

Michael took a deep breath and thought about Fi's words to him the night before. Every member of a social group has his role to play, and Michael was well-understood in the Michael/Fiona/Sam/Jesse group to be the brilliant covert operative and strategic thinker who had no idea how to talk to his family. That role is fine for Fi, like she said, and even for his mom, he supposed. But she was right. That role was not okay for Charlie. He needed to do whatever he had to, no matter how uncomfortable he may be, to try to keep this little boy's life as stable as possible. And if that meant cheering for bowel movements and having morning cuddle time, then so be it. Even he couldn't credibly suggest those things would be harder than the time he was hung upside down for four days for an interrogation in Afghanistan. Or nearly beaten to death in Nigeria. Or waterboarded in Indonesia.

He could do this.

"Charlie, you know what? Auntie Fi is still sleeping, so you and I are going to have to be really quiet and whisper. Can you whisper with me?" Charlie nodded, smiling.

"Good. Are you ready to get up? Do you want to eat breakfast?"

"Yah y -" he shouted until Michael quickly put his hands over Charlie's mouth. "Whisper, Charlie, remember?"

"Yah yah yah yah yah," whispered Charlie, climbing down from the bed and then running, full steam, to the kitchen, all the while whispering, "yah yah yah yah yah."

Already in PJ pants, Michael grabbed a white t-shirt from a clean pile on the floor and pulled it over his head as he headed to the kitchen, closing his bedroom door behind him. He stopped short when he got to the living room. Charlie was sitting in the middle of the room – in the middle of all the luggage, more precisely – and was already opening bags and dumping stuff out. Michael was stunned. It'd been maybe, **maybe**, 10 seconds since Charlie'd bounded out of the room.

Michael had to admire him. That took some talent.

"Charlie, buddy, please don't empty everything out. We'll put it away later. Come on in the kitchen and we'll find you some breakfast."

Charlie grabbed whatever toy was closest – a tiny basketball, it turned out, a giveaway from one of the local radio stations – and followed Michael into the kitchen.

"What would you like to eat, Charlie? We have toast, yogurt, oranges," said Michael, surveying the fridge. "Some leftover Chinese stir fried vegetables, some leftover rice and beans - "

"Rybee!" shouted Charlie.

"'Rybee'? Rice and beans?" Michael confirmed.

"Yah, rybee!"

"I **knew **you would've liked Carlito's," Michael muttered. He took out the poor-man's-Tupperware box housing the rice and beans and put it in the microwave. At around the :48 mark, Michael realized a two-year-old boy probably shouldn't eat food as hot as he did. He stopped the microwave, then stirred up the food. He transferred some to a cereal bowl and took it to the table along with the smallest spoon he could find in the drawer. "C'mere, Charlie. You can sit here," Michael said warmly, pulling out a chair. Charlie scampered up and put his hand over the bowl.

"Hot," he said. "I wait."

"Okay, that's a good idea. Do you want something to drink?"

"Milk."

"Uhhh, lemme check, but I don't think we have any right now," Michael replied, walking to the refrigerator. All they had was sugar-free hazelnut-flavored powdered coffee creamer. "Nope, no milk right now. You want some water? Or some iced tea? Wait, are you allowed to drink iced tea?"

"I tea!" Charlie shouted.

"But are you allowed to drink tea? I don't know if little kids can drink tea," Michael worried. For a moment, he considered waking Fiona to see if she knew. He immediately dismissed asking his mom. Fairly quickly, he remembered he was a very smart guy living in a constantly connected world of information. So he Googled it.

What Michael found next fascinated him. In just the first 15 results, no fewer than 10 message boards addressed the question, and each had probably 80 commenters voicing their opinions. Icy Chicken Wing said it is "perfectly safe and harmless" for young kids to drink iced tea, but jbubz, abbeyej, and Jumping in Puddles cautioned it should really be decaf. Sissy33 thought it helps them go to the bathroom. Michael had never been part of a group where people who didn't know what they were talking about still offered their opinion. In the Army, in the CIA, everywhere he'd worked – if you knew, you spoke up; if you didn't know, you shut up.

Michael made an executive decision that a few glugs of caffeinated iced tea mixed with a cup of water wouldn't kill his nephew. He fetched the pitcher from the fridge and mixed up Charlie's mocktail in a freebie plastic cup they'd gotten from somewhere. A street festival, maybe? It's funny, the things you think about. He brought Charlie the drink. Charlie lifted the cup to his mouth, tipped it, and spilled some down his shirt. Michael reacted with sudden movement, which scared Charlie, which caused him to cry, which caused him to fling his arms up to reach for Michael, which caused him to dump the rest of the drink out onto himself and the floor.

Michael felt that same fight-or-flight anxiety he'd always had. He forced himself to breathe and remember this anxiety involved a crying kid and wet PJs, not an abusive drunk and broken cheekbones.

"Hey, Charlie, it's okay. C'mere," Michael said tenderly. "Ooof!" he laughed, picking him up under his armpits. "You're heavy. And wet! And look. Now I'm wet, too!" Michael shifted Charlie to his left side and pulled his own white shirt away from his chest so Charlie could see the damp cotton. "See? Look at that. We're like tea twins. It's like we took a bath in iced tea." Charlie giggled and sniffed up his drippy nose a few times. "Hey, you know what we should do? Our shirts are already wet. Let's take them off and use them to dry off the chair and the floor! Whaddya think about that?" Charlie smiled hugely and moved so quickly to jump down from Michael's arms that Michael almost fell.

Michael **really** had to admire this kid's physical prowess. He was going places.

The big Westen took off his shirt, then helped the little Westen get his off. Then they both kneeled down and used their respective shirts to mop up the liquid.

"Hey, no fair, you're taking some of mine!" Michael whined in an exaggerated way. "I'm gonna take some of **yours**!"

"No!" Charlie was laughing so hard he was cackling. "My tea foh me!"

"Oh, all right, I guess you can have all that tea. Just this once," Michael said faux-sternly. On all fours, Michael stretched his arm to wipe up the last little bit of liquid. He was just pulling his arm back when Charlie jumped onto his naked back, like a body slam. Michael felt Charlie's warm, baby-soft chest on his bare back and felt . . . something. He didn't know what he felt, but he felt, and that made his eyes well up for just a moment. Michael was grateful for his 30+ years of martial arts training that gave him excellent body control as he carefully maneuvered away from the table, reached behind his back to hold on to Charlie, and somehow managed to come to a sitting position without him falling off. Michael sat Indian style, and Charlie quickly balled himself up in the safe nest of Michael's legs.

Michael heard a sneeze. He turned towards the bedrooms to see Fi, who'd flown out of bed when she heard Charlie crying. She was leaning against the wall, smiling with her lips closed, a tear streaming down each cheek.


	8. Too Much Sharing

Fi walked to the kitchen, still smiling. She kissed the top of Michael's head before she joined the group, also Indian style, facing the guys. "Good morning, Charlie," she grinned, leaning in to kiss him. "How are you doing? How was your sleep?"

"I seep yuh housh in yuh bed!" Charlie told her, just in case she'd forgotten. "I seep wif Teefee an Uncuh Micuh!"

"That you did, Charlie. You slept with us in our bed! Did you have good dreams?"

Charlie looked pensive for a second. "I dohn no deems," he said.

"Ohhhh, you don't know if you had any dreams. Well, that must mean you had a rrrrreally good sleep!" Fiona replied, leaning in for another kiss. "Are you hungry, cutie? Do you want some breakfast?"

"We already took care of that, right, Charlie?" said Michael.

"Yah I ee rybee!" Charlie said proudly, pointing to the table.

"Mmmmmm, rice and beans. I **love** rice and beans," Fiona told him.

"So does our friend Carlito," Michael said flatly.

Fi raised her middle finger to Michael as she got up, grateful Charlie wouldn't understand the gesture. "Let's work out the logistics of this morning," she said to Michael, putting the kettle on for tea. Charlie got up and climbed back on his seat to finish his rybee.

"I guess we should take turns showering so the other one can watch him. Then we can drive him to school and you can drop me off at the grocery store and I'll call you when I'm ready," she planned. "Oh, shit, I almost forgot. The other day when you were at your mom's, I dug up the northwest corner of the backyard to store the gu – to store some stuff, so you'll need to get those, too."

"Okay, so count with me and make sure I've got them all," Michael said. "The backyard. The guest room, obviously. Behind the TVs. Inside that old TV. The umbrella stand. Those big vases near the window. The bottom of the kitchen drawers and our dresser drawers. The hall closet on the top shelf and in your rain boots. Our closet. Oh, man," Michael sighed, "in our closet they're in your purses, the inside pockets of my suit jackets, behind the shoe rack, all along the floor behind the long stuff. Your jewelry box. Your travel makeup bag. Your other makeup box thing. Under the lids of both toilet tanks," Michael recited robotically, ticking his count off on his fingers, turning his eyes upwards as he mentally walked through their home.

"That back part of the pantry. The rungs of the ladder up to the attic. The attic, of course, on the shelves and also over in that trunk in the corner above our room," Fi added. "Oh, and behind that big patch on the drywall where the medicine cabinet used to be in the guest bathroom."

"Guest . . . bathroom," Michael repeated, adding the words to the list he was making. "Got it. And I've got knives in all the lamp shades and the edges of the drapes, so I'll grab those. Where's your C4 and detonators?"

"In those cute wicker boxes along the mantle," she answered.

They both thought for a few moments. "I think that's it. Oh!" Michael exclaimed, shaking his head. "Can't believe we forgot the junk drawer! I mean the one in the bathroom. We took the kitchen one to class. Junk . . . drawer," Michael said slowly, updating his list. "Okay, so **that **should be it. Yeah?" Michael asked her.

"Yeah, I think so," agreed Fi. "When you list it all out like that, it's kind of hard to believe we haven't even gotten the stuff from the storage locker."

* * *

The trio continued/started breakfast. Conversation was relaxed if incomprehensible. Charlie did most of the talking. Among the topics: Edward, trains, Thomas, Lightning McQueen, Mater, Edward, trains, Coby (Fi and Michael eventually figured out he was a kid from school), Coby playing with Thomas, Coby not letting Charlie play with Thomas, Coby getting time out, Edward, Batman, bad guys, Mater, Thomas, macaroni and cheese (the adults both pursed their lips on that one and silently instructed the other to stay silent), the potty, Edward, and Edward.

When they'd finished, Michael began clearing the dishes. Fi asked Charlie if he needed to go to the potty.

Rookie mistake.

Cutting to the punch line: you don't ask. You tell. You tell nicely in a way the kid doesn't know he's being told, but you tell.

"No potty," Charlie replied.

Fi tried again. "Charlie, Grandma Maddie told me you're learning how to use the potty like a big boy. So let's go so you can sit on the potty!"

"No nee potty," Charlie reiterated.

"How can you not need to go potty, Charlie?" Fiona pointed out. "You had a big drink this morning."

"No nee POTTY!" Charlie shouted, frustrated at his keeper's stupidity.

"All right, Charlie, I guess you don't want to be a big boy," sighed Fiona dramatically. "You can just pee in your diaper like a baby."

All this time Michael had been rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, trying to make himself invisible.

"Oooooh, I have a great idea, Charlie!" Fiona said suddenly. "How about you go into the bathroom when Uncle Michael goes so you can see how a big boy pees?"

Michael stopped what he was doing, lifted his eyes from the sink, turned his head slowly to face Fiona, and stared at her. "What the **fuck**?" he mouthed.

"Yah Uncuh Micuh pee-pee!" exclaimed Charlie. "C'mon Uncuh Micuh. Les go!" Charlie shouted, running to grab Michael's hand.

"Uhhh . . ." began Michael, but he stopped because nothing he wanted to say to Fiona was appropriate to say in front of Charlie.

"Yes, Charlie, Uncle Michael would love it if you go with him," said Fi, smiling broadly at Michael.

"Les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh!" Charlie chanted, still trying to pull Michael.

Michael finally started walking, slowly. He whipped his head back to Fiona as he did, whispering to her that she was pure evil, only he said it more colorfully.

The Westen guys made it to the master bathroom, where Michael had put Charlie's potty the night before. Michael tried one more time. "Hey, Charlie, look! There's your potty. Wanna sit on your potty?"

"No, Uncuh Micuh pee pee! And then," Charlie was now laughing so hard he almost couldn't get the words out, "and then Uncuh Micuh **poo poo**!" He was cackling at this point.

"You know what, we're just gonna stick with pee for now. I'll let Auntie Fi handle pooping."

Michael reached through the slits in his pants and boxers and prepared to pee. Never, he thought, not even when his toileting was being monitored by three humongous guards in that Indonesian prison, never had he felt so self-conscious in the bathroom. He stood there for a few moments. He'd never had a shy bladder before, but then again he'd never had a two-year-old boy gaze at his crotch expectantly. While laughing hysterically.

Fiona peered in the water closet door. "Michael, Charlie's underwear aren't like that. He'll have to pull them down. Maybe you should show him th –" she suggested.

"**HE'LL BE FINE**," Michael cut her off loudly. "Y'know, Fi, we got this," he said as he shot daggers with his eyes. "You should go anywhere but here."

"Whatever. Just trying to help," she said under her breath as she pivoted and left the boys.

"It's for Nate, it's for Nate, it's for Nate," Michael repeated silently to himself. But then, and he felt terrible about this, then he pictured Nate waiting for him to pee, and it was even worse. Michael looked to the ceiling, shaking his head a little in disbelief of his life. He closed his eyes and willed himself to block out all thoughts except swift-flowing rapids. And finally, finally, it came. Just a few drops at first, enough to get Charlie's attention, and then a regular stream. Michael kept his gaze upward, determined not to watch Charlie watching him.

Charlie was mesmerized. "Uncuh Micuh pee pee!" He suddenly ran out of the water closet area, shouting, "Teefee! Teefee! Uncuh Micuh pee pee! Teefeeeeeeeee!"

Charlie was back in an instant, just as Michael was finishing up. "I go potty now!" he said happily.

"You want to go potty now? That's good, Charlie! Okay, can you take off your pa –" Michael began.

Before he could get to the "—nts" of _pants_, Charlie had dropped trou and was trotting to his little chair, cheeks swinging in the wind, leaving on the floor his pants and a bloated diaper so sodden Michael thought it might explode of its own volition. He sat down and within a second, max, he was peeing. Michael forced himself to say, "Yay, Charlie! Good job!" even though he really felt like saying, "I can pee just as fast as you, you little shit."

The stream stopped, and then Charlie stayed still, not saying anything. He looked sort of blank.

Michael got concerned. "Charlie, are you okay?" he asked.

Then Charlie's face got red. And that's when Michael knew. Ten or twelve seconds later, Michael heard one big plop, followed by a couple of little ones. This time, Michael's praise was completely genuine, because, without knowing it, Charlie had just set the stage for Michael's sweetest revenge yet.

"Hey, Charlie, you want to show Auntie Fi what you did?" Michael said temptingly.

"Yah show Teefee!"

"FIONA. CHARLIE NEEDS YOU," Michael called.

Fi strode in a few moments later. "What's up?" she asked.

"Your turn," Michael said slyly, walking away.

4


	9. First Day of School

Ninety minutes later, Michael, Fi, and Charlie were in Madeline's car, on the way to Charlie's school. Each was silent.

Here's what happened in those ninety minutes, which, as far as Michael and Fi were concerned, felt like nine hours.

Charlie finished up on the potty, then refused to let Fiona wipe his bum, insisting he do it himself. After a brief attempt at reasoning with him, Fiona handed him some toilet paper. The only way he could reach his bottom was in the downward-facing-dog position. So first he succeeded only in smearing everything around and shredding the toilet paper, and then he fell over. That's when Fi remembered Madeline had told her once she still uses baby wipes for Charlie, not toilet paper. Fiona went to look for the baby wipes, and in that time, Charlie sat on their bathroom floor and attempted to put his old, wet diaper back on, because neither Michael nor Fi had remembered to throw it away. Michael found him doing that and startled him with a loud voice, which caused Charlie to cry, which caused Fiona to come running, which caused her and Michael to have to talk really loudly in order to hear each other over Charlie's wails in the echo chamber of the bathroom, which caused Charlie to get even more upset, which caused Michael to think he was having déjà vu all over again.

They finally got that situation resolved, and Fiona managed to clean Charlie's bum while Michael distracted him by making goofy faces and speaking Farsi.

That was only three of the ninety minutes.

Briefly, the other eighty-seven consisted of a lot of the same basic pattern: Charlie doing something that was dangerous or gross or both, Michael and Fiona both forgetting not to shout Charlie's name when they were surprised to see what he was doing, Charlie freaking out, and Michael and Fiona improvising to calm him down.

But somehow, at 8:25, the three of them were mostly clean, all the way dressed, and buckled into their seats. Charlie's school was only 15 or 20 minutes away, and he wasn't supposed to be there until 9:00, but both Michael and Fi instinctively knew to get going while there was a lull in the drama. They would sit in the car for as long as it took, because even if he threw a tantrum, at least he couldn't get out of his car seat.

* * *

With traffic, it'd actually taken them a full 30 minutes to get to The Bruce House. Once the home of a wealthy theater owner, Samuel A. Bruce, the sprawling, one-story estate sat on more than an acre of grassy land. Bruce had donated the property to a Miami non-profit foundation that established preschools in underserved areas. That was 25 years ago. Thanks to urban sprawl, yuppies had pushed out the old Cuban people in the last decade and overtaken the area, trying to morph it into the next cool Miami neighborhood. Then the yuppies turned into parents, so The Bruce House was always full to the brim and boasted an 18-month waiting list. Charlie had managed to get in because – wait for it – Sam had a buddy. And it turned out the waiting list for two-year-olds was quite short, because they just needed the school's daycare facilities. It was the four- and five-year-olds, who needed experienced teachers, who had to wait.

As Fiona turned the engine off, Michael unbuckled Charlie from his seat, and Charlie hopped down. He almost took off across the parking lot due to his excitement, but by this time Michael had learned to be ready for just that. He grabbed Charlie's arm the moment his little feet got going. Then he figured it'd be safer to carry him. That kid was just sneaky.

Fi slung Charlie's backpack over her shoulder. They'd miraculously remembered it, though that's all they had to do since Madeline had packed it. When they got to the front door of the school, Fiona pulled on the door, but it was locked. A moment later, it buzzed. She tried it again, and this time it opened.

"Hi there," a tall, slender, Indian woman said kindly. "I saw Charlie on the monitor. You must be his aunt and uncle. Madeline called this morning to let us know what was going on. I'm Manisha Mehti. The kids call me Nisha.

"Hi, Charlie," Nisha grinned. "How are you today?"

Charlie stayed silent, just looking at the woman.

"Yeah, this is Michael, Charlie's uncle. I'm Fiona. You'll have to bear with us as we figure out what we're doing here," she said somewhat apologetically. "We've never done this," she added, as if it weren't painfully obvious.

"Oh, no, you're doing great. You made it here in one piece, so I'd call that a success!" Nisha said brightly. "So is Charlie going to be with us for the whole day, or . . . " she trailed off.

"I think for today at least we'll just do the morning so it's the same as usual for him. So we pick him up at, what, 12:30? Is that right?" Fi asked.

"Yep, 12:30 is perfect. They have lunch from 11:30 to 12:00, then they go outside for recess until 12:20, and then the morning kids get packed up to go home," Nisha explained. "And don't worry. The teachers will have put him in a pull-up before he leaves so you won't have to worry about him having an accident on the way home," Nisha assured them.

Until that moment, neither Michael nor Fiona was worried about him having an accident on the way home, because neither was accustomed to thinking about another person's urinary habits. Nor had either of them considered that Charlie would need lunch. "Ohhhh . . . were we supposed to bring him lunch?" Fi asked nervously.

"No, no, no, no, no," Nisha assured her. Nisha was doing a lot of assuring. "We provide snacks and lunch."

Michael exhaled. Somehow or another, if they had been responsible for bringing lunch, it would have been his fault that they didn't.

"Let me get someone else to sit here for a few minutes, and then how 'bout I walk you all down to his classroom. Is that okay with you, Charlie?" Nisha asked. Fi and Michael were both impressed she talked to Charlie. They'd both forgotten he was there.

"Yeah, that'd be great," Michael said. Nisha spoke to someone briefly on the phone, and very soon a short, stout woman appeared from behind a door.

"We'll just be a minute, Sharon. I'm going to walk them down to Toddler 2," Nisha called over her shoulder as the four of them exited through some double doors.

They walked down an exterior hallway flanked by the building on the left and a large playground on the right. The sturdy, colorful jungle gym and other equipment brought smiles to Michael's and Fiona's faces. Sweet bay magnolia trees canopied the playground, offering some relief to little faces and arms from the unforgiving Florida sun. Hibiscus shrubs boasted bursts of color all around the playground.

"Here we are!" Nisha sang, opening a door about halfway down the hall.

About 11 or 12 little kids, all around Charlie's age, were in action in the large, colorful, friendly room. They weren't doing the same thing, but they were all doing something. Looking at a book. Building a tower. Banging dishes around in a toy kitchen. Crying. Smacking someone on the head. Narrating their activity while sitting on the toilet – with the door open. Nisha noticed Michael staring at the open door, and she said, "Yeah, not too private, is it. All the kids in this room are brand new potty trainers. We have to leave the door open so we can keep a close eye on them and make sure they don't fall in or anything. In the rooms for the older kids, of course, we teach them about privacy and make them close the door."

An older Cuban woman looked up from the fight she was breaking up and saw Charlie and his family in the doorway. "Charlie! Good morning! I'm so glad you're here!" Charlie tried to leap down, but Michael had been holding him tightly for exactly that reason. When he felt him trying to get down, Michael bent down and let Charlie go.

And that was the last time Charlie looked at his aunt or uncle.

Charlie ran to the lady (Ms. Virginia, Nisha told them), who had already kneeled down to his level, and threw his arms around her. Then he trotted over to a large rug that depicted a map of the world where several little boys were playing with wooden blocks. He said something, they said something, Michael understood none of it, and then they all played happily, building tall towers and knocking them down with great flair and robust laughter.

"It's nice to meet you," Virginia was saying to Michael and Fiona. "Nisha told me the situation, so we'll keep a real good eye on Charlie to see if he seems sad or scared or anything about all this. Big change for him."

Michael was surprised by what he considered to be Virginia's generous, loving attitude toward his nephew. A thought entered his mind that it was kind of sick that he'd become so jaded – so truly, truly jaded – by the evil people in his work that he was struck dumb by a teacher who cared about her student.

Fi and Michael got a few more details about Charlie's daily routine and instructions about the pick-up procedures. They thanked Nisha and told her they could find their way out. Then they walked over to the little boy to say goodbye.

"Hey, Charlie," Fiona said, squatting down. "Uncle Michael and I are gonna go now, okay?"

Charlie barely nodded.

"We'll pick you up a little later, okay?"

Nothing.

"Bye, Charlie," tried Michael. He leaned down and patted his back. This time Charlie said bye back. Still didn't turn around.

Michael and Fiona both kissed the top of Charlie's head, said bye again, stood up, and slowly walked to the door, hoping he'd turn around. They knew they should be happy Charlie wasn't upset that they were leaving, mostly because they didn't want him to be upset but also because they knew how loud it was when he was upset. But damn it, after the night they'd had, some acknowledgment would've been nice.

Ah well.

Walking back to the office, Fiona and Michael saw an older group of kids playing on the playground. Several of them were playing some version of cops and robbers. Both Michael and Fi instinctively looked at the scene and silently came to the same conclusion: the robbers had left too large a space unguarded in the north part of the field. Not that they wanted the robbers to win, but they should at least make it a fair fight. Fi started to go over to them to explain the flaw in their tactical position, but Michael, knowing exactly what she was going to do because he sort of wanted to as well, pulled her back by the arm.

"Let it go," he told her. "Breathe."

"We're damn well going to teach Charlie better than that," said Fi angrily.

"Well, obviously."

4


	10. No Sleep for You

Back in Madeline's car, Michael turned the engine and the air conditioning on, and then he and Fi just leaned back in their seats, silent. What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four hours before, they'd been preparing for their day with Neal and his fellow fresh faces. Specifically, they'd been fighting about their day with Neal and his fellow fresh faces.

"_Michael, seriously. Under no circumstances should this Neal person be allowed out of his cubicle. Did you read his profile? He has a Ph.D. in Tongan. Tongan. You know, the language they speak in Tonga? Lot of terroristic threats in Tonga, are there? That's it. He has no military experience, no weapons experience. He probably never even got into a fight at school."_

"_Fi, I don't control who they hire or who they give me. I'm supposed to teach these people some basic skills so they don't get themselves killed. Right? Isn't that what you wanted me to do? Look, we're just doing the thumb drive thing today. He's a language guy. He'll probably just start talking to you. Who knows, maybe he'll lapse into Tongan and you'll learn something. Point is, it's not like he's going to try to take you on physically. I'm sure he'll ignore the restraints and weapons and stuff and just flirt with you._

As Michael reflects on that exchange, he's even more amazed Fiona didn't punch him in the gut after she untied herself.

Fi spoke first. "Wow," she said, exhaling.

"Understatement of the year," Michael agreed.

"Well, look. We made it through the first night. We got him to school. Your mom only texted 11 times. I figured it'd be 15, minimum," Fiona said, pulling out her phone. "Wait . . . never mind. Seven more since we got here."

"Yeah, we made it. And we have to do it all again. And again and again and again," said Michael, leaning forward and shifting into reverse.

* * *

Two and a half hours later, Michael and Fiona sat at their kitchen table, sweating and trying to work up the energy to go get Charlie. Fi had completed the fastest grocery shopping of her life. She tried to stick to healthy foods, but she did tuck a few boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese in her cart in the interest of domestic bliss. And decaf iced tea. And a few lidded cups. She got Michael twice as much yogurt than usual. That was his comfort food, and she figured the man could use all the comfort he could get. Then, thinking about her own comfort, she slipped into the wine aisle and got a couple of bottles of red. She got out for under $250, and she called that a win.

Michael filled every suitcase and travel bag they had with their guns, ammunition, knives, C4, RDX, detonators, det cord, grenades, smoke bombs, and tasers. When he ran out of room, he used pillowcases. He even managed to do it the right way – he individually bubble wrapped the stuff that needed it, he put other things in their original cases, and he grouped like items together. Finally he was confident he got everything.

He would enlist Sam and Jesse to help them erect a prefab shed in some remote corner of the yard and then shove it all in there. They'd throw an extra four or five locks on the shed as well. Fiona and Michael had briefly considered moving everything into offsite storage, but she was still Fiona and he was still Michael and they just couldn't bring themselves to do it. They'd both spent their entire professional lives pissing people off around the world, and even with the CIA's protection, they weren't willing to disarm completely. That would leave Charlie and themselves too exposed.

"You ready?" Michael asked, gulping down the last of his iced tea.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Fi answered. "At least he'll nap when we get home."

* * *

At 3:15, everybody was awake Chez Glenanne-Westen. It wasn't that they'd woken up after their naps. It was that they'd never gone to sleep.

"Why the fuck won't he slee-ee-ee-ee-eep?" Michael whined, banging his head three times on the table.

"For the love of **god**, Michael, would you stop asking that?" Fi snapped. "How the fuck should I know? I know as much as you do."

Charlie wasn't whining or snapping. He was in a great mood. So were all the imaginary friends he was talking to in Michael's and Fiona's bed.

They'd thought it'd be easy. When they'd picked him up, Ms. Virginia told them Charlie'd had a fantastic day but was pretty tired. She was sure he'd fall asleep quickly and have a solid nap today. Finally, they'd thought, finally something was going to be easy with Charlie.

At first they'd lain down with him. That was around 1:05. Kill two birds with one stone, they thought. Charlie'd feel more comfortable with them there, and they might catch a nap, too. (They'd decided resting was a better idea than unpacking.) But Charlie was having too much fun with his Teefee and Uncuh Micuh. So then they'd read him a Dr. Seuss book, wished him a good nap, simul-kissed him on the cheeks, and left the room. That's how Google told Michael to handle naps.

When Charlie had started crying a minute later, Michael and Fiona had immediately rushed in to see if he was okay, because Michael hadn't read far enough down in the article to learn they weren't supposed to do that. Google also said you can make a kid stay in his bed, but you can't make him sleep. Michael hadn't read that part, either.

After the third false alarm, they'd caught on.

So then they'd tried some tough love. "Charlie," Michael had said firmly, "it's time for you to take a nap. No more crying. It's naptime. We'll see you when you wake up."

And he'd been quiet for a little while, so Michael and Fi had been feeling pretty proud of themselves. They'd made themselves some lunch and engaged in a thoughtful discussion about the allegory in Dr. Seuss's stories. The Big Brag, Michael said, was a satire of the pissing match between the U.S. and the Soviet Union to be the biggest, baddest superpower after World War II.

But then Charlie'd started talking. To himself. To Thomas and Edward. To Lightning McQueen and Mater. To Coby, although Charlie had seemed pretty mad at Coby so that one didn't last long. And to six or seven other people they couldn't identify. Each grown-up had poked a head in a couple of times to tell him to knock it off, but it didn't work.

Now it was 3:15. And he'd yet to stop.

And Michael and Fi didn't know what to do.

So they were being pissy with each other. About everything.

"That's great, Fi. Yeah, my **asking** why he won't go to sleep is the real problem. Not him not **going** to sleep. No, no, that has nothing to do with it," Michael said, shaking his head. "Couldn't be. That'd be ludicrous!" Michael muttered, modulating his voice as he shifted into different characters.

"Oh, fuck off, Michael." Fiona got up from the table and headed to their bedroom. "So juvenile," she said under her breath, but not that far under it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Michael asked, surprised. "Don't go in there!" he ordered.

"Jesus Christ, Michael, he's not going to sleep. I'm sick of being held hostage listening to him. We might as well let him out and move on with our lives." She opened the door to their room and went in. Five seconds later, Charlie whizzed through the living room and threw himself, full speed, at Michael.

"I finiss seeping!" he announced happily, climbing onto his uncle.

"Well, Charlie, you didn't finish sleeping so much as you never went to sleep. How come you didn't sleep? Grandma Maddie says you always take a nap."

Charlie just giggled and started playing with Michael's ears, then pulling on his lips, then sticking his fingers up Michael's nose.

At the nose, Michael pulled his face away. Then he groaned and stretched his arms up slowly, trying to wake up his body. He was trying to figure out why taking care of a two-year-old was so much more exhausting than some of the missions for which he'd stayed up for 48 hours or more. And then it dawned on him: the missions came with an adrenaline rush. Not so much with a toddler.

"All right, Charlie, whaddya say we go for a drive?"

"Yah yah yah yah yah yah yah yah yah!"

"Okay. Go find your shoes," Michael told him. Charlie scampered down and took off across the house. "FIONA," shouted Michael.

"WHAT?" she yelled back, more angrily than loudly.

"Charlie and I are leaving."

She appeared in the doorway of their bedroom. "You're leaving? Where're you going?"

"I don't know. We'll find a park or something," he replied, taking two bottles of water from the fridge.

"I must admit, Michael, you've surprised me," she said, a smile slowly finding its way to her mouth.

"Yeah, well, you and I are going to kill each other if one of us doesn't get out of here pretty soon. Take the quiet time and do what you want. But be ready, because it's your turn when we get back," he added quickly.

"Yo. No-nap boy. Where are you?" called Michael.

Charlie had already gotten distracted from his sole task of finding his shoes. He was on the floor of the front foyer, playing with – you guessed it – Edward.

"Charlie, buddy, what are you doing? Go find your shoes!" Michael said, trying really hard to sound enthusiastic instead of catatonic.

"Oh yah, soos! I fohgah." He ran out of the bedroom, ran around the house, and then came back to Michael. "Weh soos?" he asked, his eyes big, his voice concerned.

"Now, Charlie, if I knew where your shoes were, I wouldn't have asked you to go find them." Michael did the same smile-instead-of-pummel thing as he'd done with Neal the day before. "But we'll go look together." Michael took Charlie's hand as the Westens set off on Mission: Find Shoes.

4


	11. King for a Day

A/N: Thank you all so much for the sweet words about my story. The writing I do for a living is not nearly as fun as this. I appreciate everyone's taking the time to read and especially to leave a review.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Michael and Charlie were finally on their way. After Michael had buckled Charlie into his car seat but before he'd made it back to the driver's seat, Charlie had fallen asleep. So both guys had taken a good nap in the car. Fiona had seen them through the window and come out to check on them. She'd quickly figured out what was going on. Much as she'd wanted to nap herself, she wasn't willing to leave Michael and Charlie unguarded. So she'd gotten her book, gotten a lawn chair, and gotten comfy in the driveway to keep an eye on her boys. Michael had woken up when a dog barked down the street. A few moments later, he'd seen Fi on sentry duty. He'd instantly understood what she was doing, and he'd smiled as a deep sigh of contentment escaped his nose. He'd gotten out of the car as quietly as he could, then gone to her.

"Good morning, sleepy."

"Hey. How long have we been out?"

"About 90 minutes. You feel better?"

"Yeah, I do. Did you sleep?"

Fiona had just smiled.

Michael had crooked his arm around her neck. "Thank you, Fi. Really." Then he'd looked at his watch, and to Charlie, and back to Fiona, and said, "I think we'll still go. We'll find something. We'll be back in a couple of hours and then we can figure out dinner. Get some sleep, okay?"

And after they'd shared some I'm-not-mad-anymore kisses, back to the car he'd gone.

* * *

Sam and Jesse were already waiting in the parking lot of the playground when Michael pulled in. He'd texted them and asked them to meet him and Charlie there rather than at the house. Michael parked and got out.

"Do you realize how ridiculous we look here, Mike?" asked Jesse. "Two grown men, at a playground, without a kid. I'm surprised we didn't get arrested."

"Hello to you, too, Jesse," Michael said, opening Charlie's door. Charlie had woken up shortly after they'd left the house, blinked a couple of times, and started talking again without missing a beat. About Edward. Michael had finally listened carefully and was slowly piecing together Edward and Thomas and the whole train gang. It was just like learning a new language, and he'd done that plenty of times.

"Charlie, look who's here," Michael said, unbuckling Charlie and then quickly jumping out of the way when Charlie leapt from his seat.

Charlie saw Sam and Jesse and burst into a huge grin. Never stopped moving, though. Sam and Jesse took off after him. Michael sighed and smiled, relieved that someone else would run for him.

"Woah, there, Speed Racer," said Sam, grabbing Charlie from behind when they caught up with him. "Whaddya say Uncle Sam carries you the rest of the way, okay, buddy?"

"Go fasht, Uncuh Sam!" Charlie yelled. Right next to Sam's ear.

"Charlie, friend, this is as fast as Uncle Sam goes these days. You'll understand in about 50 years. Oooh, but I bet Uncle Jesse could go **really **fast!" Sam grinned, about to hand Charlie off to Jesse.

"Don't even think about it, Sam," Jesse warned. "Not after this afternoon."

"What happened this afternoon?" Michael asked, suddenly realizing this probably had everything to do with Neal.

"Hey, fair's fair," Sam shot back to Jesse. "We flipped a coin. It's not my fault the guy had a panic attack."

Yep. Neal.

"Tell me," Michael said, his face buried in his hands.

"Okay, so, we were doin' some basic interrogation with them like you said," began Sam. "They were all supposed to pick a cover so they'd know what to say when we started askin' 'em questions. And we told 'em, 'pick something you know.'"

By this time they'd arrived at the play equipment. Charlie took off to the monkey bars. His three spotters followed slowly.

"So everybody picks something they know about. Like, Kathryn the engineer picked engineer. That Clint guy picked doctor 'cause he's, y'know, a doctor," Sam explained.

"What did Neal pick?" Michael asked quietly, really not wanting to know the answer.

"King," Jesse announced.

"King?"

"King."

"King of what?"

"Tonga."

"King of Tonga," Michael repeated. "Tonga already has a king."

"I know, Mike," said Jesse.

"He's Polynesian," Michael added.

"Yep, I'd imagine he is," Sam agreed.

"Neal isn't Polynesian," said Michael.

"Right again."

Suddenly, Charlie's loud cry filled the air. "I tuck! Uncuh Micuh, I tuck!" He had made it across two monkey bars, and now it appeared his little arms couldn't hold his weight. Michael ran over and grabbed him around his middle, putting him down gently on the ground. "Okay, Charlie, there you go." Charlie trotted out from under the monkey bars, deciding where to go next.

"He said he was king. Of Tonga," Michael said slowly, still not totally believing it.

"Said he was King of Tonga, Mike," Jesse confirmed. "The guy so blonde he looks Aryan said he was King of Tonga."

"Okay, so, what then?"

"Well, I mean, we had to go with what he picked, right?" said Jesse. "So I took out my phone and Googled him and showed Neal all the pictures of the King of Tonga. King Tupou the Sixth," Jesse enunciated slowly.

"And?" probed Michael.

"And he said that guy was an imposter," Jesse told him.

"An imposter," Michael repeated.

"Said it was sour grapes 'cause the Tongans had decided to go another way and name a white guy as king and this guy was just pissed," explained Jesse.

"Was he high?" Michael wondered.

"Not as far as we can tell, Mike," Sam said. "But believe me, we did ask."

"So wh – "

"UNCUH MICUH, I TUCK UNCUH MICUH," wailed Charlie. From the second monkey bar.

Michael returned to his nephew, holding him around his midsection. "Charlie, why would you go back on the monkey bars when you just got stuck?"

"I like money bahs!"

"Yes, I can see that you like the monkey bars, but you can't **do** the monkey bars. That's the problem, Charlie."

"I do money bahs!"

"Well, no, actually, you **don't** do monkey bars, Charlie. That's what I'm telling you. Listen, I'm going to help you off, but don't climb back up here again. You got it?"

"Okay, I goddit."

Michael watched him scamper off. He started formulating his plan for when Charlie mounted the monkey bars a third time.

"So. Neal," Michael said, inviting Sam and Jesse to finish the story.

"Yeah, so, I wasn't exactly prepared to go head to head with this freak on the details of the Tongan monarchy, so I just told him he was full of shit," Jesse replied. "And then he started hyperventilating."

Michael leaned his head all the way back, whispering something to himself.

"And we could all see him on the monitor," Sam interjected, "so I ran in there to help. And you know how you're supposed to say reassuring stuff, right? So I just told him he wasn't gonna die and of course he's the King of Tonga and stuff like that."

Michael watched as Charlie started to climb the ladder to the monkey bars. "Jesus, it's like rewinding Neal 25 years," he said to his friends. "CHARLIE," he said sternly. "WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING."

Charlie looked at him sheepishly and got off.

"Hey, Charlie, you want me to help you?" Jesse offered. "You want me to help you do the monkey bars?"

"Yah yah yah!"

"Okay, you climb up and I'll help you when you get up there."

Charlie ascended the ladder, leaned forward to the first bar, and released his feet. He swung himself madly and managed to move to the second bar. He tried for the third, but couldn't do it. Jesse held on to his waist to relieve the weight on Charlie's arms. Charlie moved forward a bar, then another.

"LEGGO ESSEY," Charlie shouted. "Essey" was what he preferred to Uncle Jesse.

"Wait, I thought you wanted my help," Jesse said.

"LEGGO ESSEY. I DO MYSEFF."

Jesse let go.

Charlie dangled.

"AHHHHHHHH! ESSEY!"

Jesse grabbed his waist.

And this went on until Charlie reached the end of the bars.

"Between Neal and Charlie," Jesse said to Michael, lifting Charlie off the equipment and onto his shoulders, "you're buying me dinner."

4


	12. The World According to Charlie

Michael stared at his phone, as if continued gaze might change the text on the screen.

_C invited to bday party. 3y.o. girl. Sat 4pm. Get gift. Will email info._

He considered texting his mom back, but decided that would lead to more confusion. So he called.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"A birthday party? For who?"

"Michael, civilized people say hello. And civilized sons ask how their extremely sick mother is feeling."

"I'm sorry, Mom. How are you feeling?"

"Oh, just peachy. It's been a week, Michael. A week of being scared to sleep for fear I won't wake up. A week of wondering if this is how it feels to die. How the hell do you think I feel?" Madeline snapped.

_And that's why I didn't ask you_, Michael didn't say. "That's too bad, Mom. Just think how much worse you'd feel if Charlie was there!" Michael said brightly, trying to help.

Madeline was silent for a few moments. Then Michael could hear her breathing deeply. "Michael," she began, "are you **trying** to make me feel worse?"

"What? No! I just meant – I mean, that was the whole point of him staying with us, right? Because you didn't have the energy to take care of him?"

"'_Didn't have the energy_,'" Madeline repeated scornfully. "The energy? I didn't have the **energy**? You make it sound like I didn't get my afternoon nap! I am **sick**, Michael. I am a living, breathing – for now, anyway – a living, breathing, festering pile of disease. I might die this week, you know that? And now I've lost the one thing in my life that gives me joy. That little boy, with his shining smile and perfect personality and all those wonderful things he says, that precious little boy is the sole reason I have for getting up in the morning, and you think I should be **grateful** he's not here? Are you really that sadistic, Michael?"

Michael breathed out slowly through pursed lips, forcing himself not to say anything.

"Well? Nothing? You have nothing to say?"

Michael knew better. He knew not to say anything. He knew it would lead to nothing good. He knew.

He didn't care.

"Mom, trust me, I know how bad you feel. I felt pretty bad myself when I was shot an inch away from my heart. Oh, but you're right, this is probably more like that time I had sepsis in Bangladesh. But that was okay; I figured, hey, it's probably okay that they're using that guy's IV on me; he looks clean enough.

"And don't even start about his perfect personality and all the wonderful things he says. You may recall that less than 24 hours before we took him, you called and said you were locking yourself in your closet so you didn't have to hear about, and I quote, 'that fucking train.'"

This time Madeline was silent.

"So," Michael said evenly, "let's start over. What birthday party?"

"A little girl in his class. Sophia. Sophia-with-a-ph. Now don't get her mixed up with Sofia-with-an-f because that Sofia is not having boys to her party this year. Or . . . wait, maybe Sofia-with-an-f G. is having boys but Sofia-with-an-f L. is not. Now let me think just a minute . . ."

_What ever happened to Jane?_, Michael thought. "Okay, Sophia-with-a-ph," he said, trying to get his mother to focus. "Sophia-with-a-ph is having a party. Where?"

"Her house," Madeline replied. "I'll send you the address."

"Wow, her parents are either brave or stupid to take care of all those kids themselves," Michael remarked.

"Michael, you don't **leave** him there. They're three years old. You have to stay with him," Madeline explained.

"We have to stay with him? What are we supposed to do?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Oh, I'm sure there'll be an orgy for the adults. What's the matter with you, '_what are we supposed to do?'_? You sit there and sing Happy Birthday when it's time and eat a goddamn piece of cake!"

Michael looked at his watch. Three more minutes until his class. Three more minutes, max, of his mother.

"Okay, fine, we'll take him to the party at Sofia-with-an-f's house," Michael said.

"JESUS CHR – " Madeline shouted as loud as she could, which wasn't loud at all. Just angry.

"I'm KIDDING, Mom. A little joke. Sophia-with-a-ph. Turning three. What do we get her?"

"Michael, for the sake of our future relationship and your life with Fiona, I am hanging up now before I decide to use my last legs to drive over and kill you. Go to a toy store. Tell Charlie I love him. G'bye."

Michael pressed the red button on his phone and exhaled. Then he put it on the table and looked over his class roster one last time. Nobody seemed like a Neal. A very promising start.

The door opened, and Fiona walked in carrying two huge duffel bags. "I'm ready, and this time, Michael, if one of them rips my hair out with duct tape, I intend to return the favor. And I will do the same to you. Or worse. And you'll never know when it's coming," Fiona whispered dramatically, grinning slyly.

Now, for any other two people in the world, that would have been menacing. For Michael and Fiona, it was foreplay.

"I talked with my mom," Michael eventually said, trying to regain his composure.

"Oh yeah? How is she?"

"A lot nicer than yesterday, so I guess she's feeling better."

* * *

Seven hours later, Michael and Fiona were sitting in rush hour traffic, inching their way to Charlie. Earlier in the week, after talking with Charlie and Madeline and Nisha and Ms. Virginia and anyone else who might have an opinion, they'd decided to have Charlie stay at school all day. He loved it, and apparently he actually napped there. He'd yet to nap at their house.

He'd also yet to sleep in his own bed, even though the guns and ammo were long gone from the guest bedroom.

And he'd yet to let Michael pee by himself. But Michael was getting used to it, which scared him even more than a preschooler watching him pee.

But for all the things he'd yet to do, Charlie had done many other things. He'd hopped in the shower with Michael and Fi, instead of coloring just outside the bathroom door as they'd instructed. Twice. That's when they went back to showering separately.

He'd announced to everyone they saw on their evening walks that Michael was not his daddy.

He'd thrown tantrums in the kitchen, their bedroom, the front yard, the back yard, the car, Subway, the school parking lot, the grocery store, the bathroom of the grocery store, Carlito's (Fi had finally given in), the beach, the yogurt place, and the book store.

And it was only day eight.

Tantrums fascinated Michael. Well, they also startled and embarrassed and angered him, but once those emotions faded a bit, they fascinated him. Michael could understand being furious at not getting his way. That's human nature. Toddlers just have to learn to control their fury. That made sense to Michael.

What didn't make sense is what they got mad about. Most of the time, Charlie's tantrums resulted from his changing his own mind about what he wanted. And it was always something profoundly unimportant.

Take the parking lot tantrum, for example. There were two places to park, one right across from the other. Michael started to go to the one to the left. Charlie pointed to the other one and said, "Dah wun!" Michael, having learned to choose his battles, pointed to the spot on the right and asked, "Charlie, would you like me to park in that spot?"

"Yah!"

"Okey dokey," replied Michael. "No problem. Charlie gets to choo-oose!" he sing-songed. He'd been Googling again and had found lots of lots and LOTS of stuff about giving kids choices. It seemed harmless and people swore it cut down on tantrums, so Michael figured he'd try it.

Then Charlie changed his mind. Only he forgot to tell Michael.

Michael started to pull in to the spot on the right. "No," Charlie said, "the other one." No reaction. "NO," Charlie said, "THE OTHER ONE." Still nothing. "UNCUH MICUH," Charlie said, with some ooomph this time. "UNCUH MICUH, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? I SAID GO TO THE OTHER ONE AND YOU ARE NOT DOING IT AND YOU ARE CAUSING ME GREAT DISTRESS AND JUST GO BACK TO THE OTHER $!*&ING SPOT ALREADY AND OH MY GOD YOU'RE SERIOUSLY GOING TO PARK HERE, AREN'T YOU."

But Charlie didn't say it like that. He just screamed violently and emphasized his point with some accusatory finger-pointing back to the other spot.

Michael turned off the engine and twisted around to face Charlie. "Charlie, now, I understand you're upset. I'm sorry you're upset. But you asked me to park in this spot. That was your choice. So this is where we're parking."

Charlie just screamed more. Michael went around to Charlie's seat and lifted him firmly out of the car seat.

Still screaming and now choking on his own snot, Charlie threw himself to the asphalt (carefully, checking to make sure he wouldn't bang his head). A father/uncle type walked by and said cheerfully, "Hey, it'll be okay!" Charlie stopped crying long enough to glare at the man.

Another car pulled in to the spot right next to the good spot – the spot Michael wanted and Charlie rejected and then Charlie wanted again. The woman took a stroller out of the trunk, unfolded it, and lifted a baby out of the car and into the stroller. Charlie seemed to enjoy that. He stopped crying to listen to what the lady was saying.

As soon as the woman strolled the stroller toward the school, Charlie evidently relived the trauma and started up again.

After another two minutes of screaming, Charlie finally stopped. Then he got up, took Michael's hand, and started to trot off to school without a care in the world.

That afternoon, when Michael and Fiona picked him up, Charlie saw the good spot again in the parking lot. It was still empty. He burst into tears and fell to the ground.

So, just as he'd done with his students, Michael decided to think of Charlie like his woebegone clients, but with a couple of tweaks: Recognize he's not entirely to blame for his situation, help him learn to solve his own problem and maybe impart a little common sense along the way, and try really hard to not let him crack his skull open during the tantrums.

But sometimes he also needed to think of him like one of those third world despots he so frequently had to outwit. You let those people think they're getting what they want, and then you either kill them or make them think they want something else and give them that instead. Michael knew option B was his only option with Charlie, so that gave him a lot of incentive to end things peacefully.

And it was going . . . well, _well_ would be overstating it, but it was going as well as could be expected.

* * *

Michael and Fiona had made it to school, gotten Charlie, and were finally home. Tonight was a big night. Charlie had been begging for days to cook. The toy kitchen at school was one of his favorite areas, and he was itching to grab a plastic pot and some fake bacon at home, too. So the adults had decided to bite the bullet and do it. They were going to make breakfast for dinner. They figured Charlie could take the bread out of the bag and put it in the toaster. Set the table. Maybe use the serving spoon to give everyone some cut-up cantaloupe.

Charlie had other plans. But at every turn, it seemed like, one of the fuddy-duddies thwarted his plans.

"No, no, no, no, no, Charlie, you can't throw the egg. We have to be very gentle with eggs."

"Ahhh! Charlie! Get down from there. You can't pull yourself up on the oven handle. That's very dangerous."

"Okay, Charlie, would you like to stir up the eggs? All right, so, here, just put your hand around this whisk, and I'll hold on to it, too, and then verrrrrry slo – CHARLIE! SLOWly. Very, very SLOWly."

"No, Charlie, you can't lick the egg from off the floor. Let's just get a sponge and clean it up."

"Fi, where's that knife? It was just h – CHARLIE, DROP IT. You know you can't lick jelly off a knife. Come on now. You know better than that."

Eventually, and with only one minor burn between the three of them, dinner was ready. Charlie sat down and started to eat. Michael sat with him, then got up to pour Charlie some milk. Fi was waiting for the kettle's mid-pitched whistle to raise to a shriek. Michael sat back down and put the lidded cup of milk near Charlie's plate. Fiona brought two steaming cups of tea to the table. Charlie put the last bite of food in his mouth.

"Aw finiss! I go pay now!"

Michael and Fiona sighed deeply with relief and nodded their approval for Charlie to go play. Somewhere else.

Only two more hours til bedtime.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! The parking lot tantrum is ripped from the headlines of my own life. My son did that when he was 25 months old. And he's done every one of those cooking things and then some.


	13. The Party

"This is the most offensive thing I've ever seen," Fiona announced loudly.

Michael stared at her. "Fi, you lived in a war zone. You've seen people murdered. **This** is the most offensive thing you've seen," Michael said flatly.

"It's a systematic, institutionalized, capitalistic marginalization of women."

"It's pink Legos."

"It's pink Legos in an aisle **full** of toys some misogynistic blowhard in a marketing firm decided must be **pink** in order for girls to like them," Fiona retorted. "Even the goddamn aisle is labeled 'Girl Toys.' Wake up, Michael. This is how it starts."

"Fiona. I – "

"Don't interrupt me. We are not going to support this. We **will not** support it. We're getting her regular Legos." She marched over to the next aisle. Michael just walked over to it. He wasn't riled up enough to march.

"I'm sure Sophia will be very happy with non-pink Legos," Michael said soothingly, taking a rectangular, plastic tub off the shelf. "Wait, this says not for children under three. She's turning three." Michael looked a little fight-or-flighty. "What do we do?"

"Well, that's ridiculous. I played with my brothers' Legos when I was two. See, Michael, this is just another example of somebody th – "

"Excuse me," Michael said to a female employee walking nearby. "Do you know why children under three can't have Legos?"

"Oh, they're a choking hazard. The pieces are real little and the babies like to put 'em in their mouths."

Michael and Fiona felt very dumb. Fiona actually hung her head a little.

"What would you recommend instead for a kid turning three?" Michael asked.

"Y'all know about Duplos? They're big Legos. Kids can't swallow 'em. They're right there in those green boxes."

They looked to the left of the blue Legos tubs and saw the green Duplos tubs. "Problem solved. Thank you very much," Michael said warmly, smiling at the teenager. A teenager who obviously knew more about child safety than them.

"Or if you want we've got pink ones. Is it for a little girl?"

Michael immediately threw his arm over Fiona's back and around her opposite arm, momentarily immobilizing her. "Y'know, the regular ones will be just fine," Michael said quickly. And loudly. He was trying to drown out the growl coming from Fiona's throat. "Thank you."

"Sure. I'm Carla if you need anything else."

Michael waited until Carla was out of sight before he let go of Fiona.

"See, Michael? You see? This girl just **assumed** a little girl would want pink. She's brainwashed," Fiona grumbled.

"Fi, she's a 17-year-old kid just trying to finish her shift. Can we just get the non-sexist Duplos and go, please? I told Sam we'd be home by 2:30."

"Fine," she muttered, and they walked to the check-out stations.

"I wonder how Sam did," Fiona said after a few moments. "This was his first time on his own with Charlie."

"Oh, I'm sure he got his exercise," Michael replied. "Kinda nice to finally have someone else see what we've been dealing with. I don't think Sam and Jesse really believe me."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Michael and Fiona walked in their front door. Sam was on the couch, watching something on a laptop.

"Shhhh," he whispered, putting a finger to his mouth. "He's asleep."

Michael and Fi looked at each other, then looked back to Sam. "He's asleep?" Michael asked.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, he's asleep?" Fiona demanded in a not-very-quiet whisper. "He never sleeps during the day."

"Yeah, fell asleep about 15 minutes after you two left. He's been out for, what, I guess about two hours now," Sam said, looking at his watch.

"He's asleep," Michael repeated slowly.

"Guys, what's the problem here? Yes, he's asleep. So what?" Sam asked, confused.

"It's not fair, that's what!" Fiona hissed. "For the five days he's been here at his nap time, he's refused to sleep. We have tried **everything**. And now you show up and he just falls asleep? Just like that?" Fi was livid. Quiet, but livid.

"Look, jeez, I'm sorry. He said he was tired, so I said, 'Why don't you go lie down?' and he did and that was that."

"Did you give him something?" Michael asked quietly. "You can tell us. I mean, we'd understand," he added empathetically.

"Mikey, come on, you think I drugged a two year old to take a nap? What is so hard about this? The kid was tired. He went to sleep. Soon he will wake up. End of story."

Fiona hmmmphed and stomped out of the living room.

Michael sighed and sat down on the couch near Sam. "What're you watching?"

"Oh, the tape of that Neal kid grabbin' Fi. Jesse had told me about it, but man, this is something ya gotta see for yourself."

Michael and Sam watched together. Michael shook his head. "Ten days later and it still makes no sense whatsoever. We had spent the entire day on that exercise. He'd watched everyone else in the class do it. Nobody else tied her up. I never suggested he tie her up. I just – I dunno. Let's hope he stays at his desk for the rest of his career. Or at least the rest of my career."

The video finished, and Sam closed the laptop's screen. "What do you guys have planned for today?"

"A kid in Charlie's class has a birthday party at four. We're taking him to that. After that, I don't know. Nothing definite."

"Well, that's perfect then. A buddy of mine called and said he's got a 4:15 tee time. You wanna just meet us there?"

"No, Sam, I can't. We have to stay at the party with him."

"You stay at the party?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I know. Weird."

"I don't think my folks ever stayed at any birthday party I went to," Sam said. "What about you?"

"I did my best never to tell my parents where I was," Michael answered. "Absolutely nothing good could come out of them knowing where I was."

"Yeah, I can see that."

* * *

"Hi therrrrrrrre! Come on innnnnnn! I'm Sophia's mom, Layla!" Which she pronounced _Lay-luhhhh._

Wearing a coconut bra and full make-up, Layluhhhh took Fiona's hand and led her inside. Michael followed with Charlie and a black and white checkered gift bag full of Duplos and non-pink tissue paper. He slowed down considerably once they crossed the threshold because Charlie attached himself to Michael's leg.

Now, Michael's seen a lot. Opulence. Poverty. Rescue. Murder. Bravery. Cowardice.

But Michael had never seen anything quite like this.

Dozens of multicolored strings of silk hibiscus flowers hung on the walls of the entryway. Raffia fringe doubling as a grass skirt encircled every table and table-esque object in sight. Bright, plastic leis hung from the necks of all the people, as well as a few stone busts on pedestals and a couple of large floor urns. Two inflated tiki heads guarded the entryway into the large living room. A piñata shaped like a pineapple sat near the door, waiting to be strung up and killed. And off in the corner of the living room, another coconut-clad woman, this one a hula dancer, swayed and smiled to the music piping through the house.

Michael put Sophia's present down with about 20 other gift bags along the wall, then extracted his leg from Charlie's clutches and picked him up, holding him close as he carried him down the steps into the living room. Layla, still holding Fi's hand, turned around and flapped her hand onto Michael's chest. "Would y'all like something to drink? We've got pineapple margaritas and piña coladas. We got virgin and not so virgin," she said too loudly, winking dramatically.

"Uh, sure," Fi said. She followed Layla into the kitchen, leaving the boys to negotiate the living room themselves.

"What do we think about all this, Charlie?" Michael said softly into Charlie's right ear. "Do we like it?" Charlie was silent as he took it all in. "I tell you what, Charlie, I think you may be the only kid here. These are all adults. What'd you do to earn an invitation, hmmm?"

As if on cue, a gaggle of short children came bursting in through the back door. Shrieking ensued. Through the open door, Michael could see the pool and the rest of the back yard. It looked like a Waikiki tourist shop threw up. Tiki torches everywhere. Waiters dressed like Don Ho carrying platters of tropical fruit and umbrella drinks. More leis, more hibiscus, and more raffia-grass skirts.

Charlie tried to throw himself out of Michael's arms, but Michael was an old pro now and held tight. "Connuh!" he exclaimed. "I see Connuh! An I see Mawuhlin!"

"Connor and Marilyn?" Michael asked. "They your friends from school?"

"Yah fum school."

Michael put Charlie down and watched as he ran off to join his people.

Then Michael felt very obviously alone and out of place. He surveyed (surveilled, really) the room instinctively. There were about 35 adults, split roughly 60/40 women and men. All but two men wore Hawaiian shirts. Almost all the women wore something tropical or floral or otherwise meant to call Hawaii to mind. And they all wore full make-up. Six men and nine women were noticeably drunk. Two of the men probably wouldn't be conscious in an hour. Michael heard talk of hot yoga and school readiness enrichment programs and cigar bars and karate classes and Aspen and private swimming lessons at home because you just don't know what's in that water at the swim school and Jackson Hole and admission requirements for what some said was the most academically rigorous private school in Miami for kindergarteners but others said was a clique for rich lawyers' kids too ill-behaved to get in anywhere else.

Fiona walked over to him with two ridiculously oversized piña colada glasses filled with pale yellow slush, one with an orange umbrella and one with a green. "Your favorite. A virgin piña colada," she said, handing him the green umbrella drink, smiling broadly. Her smile disappeared as he squinted his eyes at her. "They didn't have iced tea," she shrugged.

"Did they have water?"

"It would've involved asking Layla, and I decided I don't care about you enough to do that."

"Fair enough." Michael was a light drinker at the best of times. Now that he had Charlie, he was a non-drinker. He hated feeling even a tiny bit mentally compromised when he was taking care of him. Fiona liked it because she could drink as much as she wanted when Michael was around. Charlie's never-ending monologue was a lot easier to take once some alcohol was helping her go to her happy place.

"Did your mom tell you this was a Hawaiian party?" Fi was wearing white, body-hugging jeans that ended mid-calf, a dark gray tank top, and three-inch, flesh-colored espadrilles. Michael was in jeans, an army-green t-shirt, and thong flip-flops.

"Would it've made a difference if she had?"

"Well, certainly not for you. But we could've just sent Sam. All he owns are Hawaiian shirts."

Michael took a sip of his drink and winced. "This is like drinking a bowl of sugar, Fi. Is this what they're giving the kids?"

"Yeah, probably."

"God, between the nap and the drink, do you think he'll sleep at all tonight?" Michael asked glumly.

"Already thought of that," Fi grinned. "Apparently Charlie has gotten Elsa nostalgic for when Evan was that age. When they were over the other night, she told me she'd love to have Charlie over for a sleepover at the hotel. They've got some family suite or something that's like a kid paradise. So I figure since Sam got him while he slept this afternoon, Sam can have him while he doesn't sleep tonight."

"Well, I've got no problem doing that to Sam, but we can't do that to Elsa. Come on."

"Nope, I already texted her and warned her and she said it was no problem. That place is designed for children who won't sleep. They just play until they pass out. She said they'll put on a movie for him if he's still up and he'll conk out in seconds. Said Evan used to do that all the time."

Michael looked skeptical. "You sure? Kinda seems too good to be true. Things don't work out so well for us when they seem too good to be true."

"I'm sure. She's sure. I couldn't care less if Sam's sure. Charlie will love it. And hey," Fiona added, "of the four of us, Elsa's the only one to have actually had a kid. He's an idiot but he's alive. We should pay her to take Charlie for a night."

Michael finally allowed himself to smile and nod. He was exhausted and desperate for a good night's sleep. They both were. But he was relieved his hormones still worked well enough that he was more looking forward to sleeping with Fi than sleeping next to Fi.

* * *

Just then Charlie cut a path through the adult-infested living room and barreled into Michael's legs. Something interesting had happened in the last week. Charlie now preferred Michael to Fiona, and Michael was pretty damn comfortable around Charlie, considering the intense discomfort he'd started with. For one thing, he now talked with the kid. Easily. Often. And Charlie ate it up. Fi didn't know if Charlie was subconsciously looking to fill the void Nate left, or if he was like everyone else and wanted to be around Michael because Michael is a bad ass. She loved it either way. She smiled as she looked down at the Charlie/Michael meld.

"Uncuh Micuh come wif me. Come pay wif me. Teefee go way."

Michael and Fiona both stifled laughs and bit their lips, trying to maintain a disapproving face. "Charlie, that's not a nice thing to say to Auntie Fi," Michael admonished. "Tell her you're sorry."

"Sorryteefee les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh les go Uncuh Micuh!"

Charlie took Michael's hand, and Michael allowed himself to be pulled through the room. Once they were past the throng of people, Michael squeezed Charlie's hand and asked, "Where are we going, Charlie?"

"Tuhuda!"

"Tuhuda? Where's Tuhuda?" Michael asked.

"Owsigh!" Charlie replied. Outside. Michael had learned by this point to just go with what he had and assume he'd figure the rest out later.

They stepped out into the back yard and were immediately approached by a 20-something-year-old Don Ho. "Kauai-kabob?" Don asked.

Michael looked at the skewers of colorful, glistening, tropical fruits. They would've looked good anyway, but they looked especially delicious compared to the sugar cane he'd just licked. "Yeah, thanks." Don handed him a hibiscus-patterned paper plate with two kabobs – a long one and a short one. _Kid kabobs_, Michael thought. Unreal.

"Want some mango, Charlie?" Michael offered, pulling off a chunk and handing it down to him. Charlie took it and shoved the whole piece in his mouth. When he couldn't close his lips, he looked like he very much regretted that decision. "Bites, Charlie. Little bites." Michael cupped his hand under Charlie's chin, and the little boy spit out the fruit. "Okay, try again. Bites." Charlie picked up the now extra-slimy mango and bit a manageable piece off.

Watching Charlie chew, Michael marveled at the fact that he'd just willingly invited someone to spit licked fruit into his hand. What a difference a kid makes.

Michael popped some papaya into his own mouth and looked around the yard. The back right area had been converted into a bowling lane for CocoBowl. Half a dozen coconuts sat waiting for a kid to roll – hurl, really, if the kid was like Charlie – down the grass to a triangle of one liter bottles filled with brightly colored water. Nobody was CocoBowling, but several kids were throwing some other coconuts at the wooden fence.

To the left, a tanned women with flowers in her hair and coconuts on her breasts stood in front of three girls and a boy. She was showing the kids the arm and hip movements of a hula dance in slow motion. At their young age, the kids mostly jerked and kicked, but their huge smiles revealed just how much fun they were having.

"Tuhuda!" Charlie shouted, pointing to the dance class. "Les go Tuhuda!"

"Tuhuda," Michael said under his breath. "Oh, _to hula_? You want to go learn to hula?" he asked.

"Yah come on Uncuh Micuh!" said Charlie, pulling Michael's hand.

"Uh, Charlie, Uncle Michael doesn't hula. You wanna go throw coconuts?"

"Tuhuda! Come onnnnnnnnn," Charlie repeated, now tugging Michael.

"You do it and I'll watch, okay?" Michael suggested.

"No, Michael, you should hula," a sultry voice said from behind him.

Michael whipped around. "**You** go hula, Fi."

"No not Teefee! Come on Uncuh Micuh!" Charlie ordered.

"Yep, Charlie, Uncle Michael is going to go dance with you. You got it. You want me to take a video on my phone so you can see it later?" Fiona asked him enthusiastically.

"I swear to **god**, Fiona, I'm going to make you pay for this," Michael said in the best (worst?) bad ass voice he could muster, which wasn't all that bad ass because he had to whisper.

Charlie and Michael walked – well, Charlie ran and Michael tried to escape into the ground – to the dance class. Charlie looked as if he were heading front and center, so Michael firmly led him to the edge of the group towards the back. He adjusted his sunglasses, as if covering his eyes would turn him invisible.

"Aloha," the hula dancer said warmly. "What's your name, buddy?"

Charlie blushed, looked down, and grabbed Michael's legs.

"Come on, tell her your name," Michael encouraged him, rubbing Charlie's back.

"Choddy," he said shyly.

"Aloha, Charlie. That means _hello_ in Hawaiian," the dancer told him. "Who's that with you, Charlie?"

"Uncuh Micuh!"

"Well, aloha, Uncle Michael," she said with a grin. "I'm Kailani. Do any of you know what Kailani means?" she asked the group. Silence. "It means warrior queen," she explained. "That means I'm a really good fighter. Girls can be really good fighters! Did you know that?"

"I knew that," Fiona announced proudly. "In fact, girls, if you want to learn how to fight after you learn to hula, you just come see me, okay?" The three little girls just stared at Fiona.

Michael tried again to disappear into the earth.

"Okay!" said Kailani. "Let's learn to hula! All right, I've got some special hula skirts for anyone who'd like one." The girls shouted, "I want one! I want one!" all on top of each other and practically tackled Kailani.

"Now, boys and men wear these kinds of skirts, too, for really special parties. Would you like one?" she asked, offering one to the little boy in the front. He nodded, and Kailani helped him fasten it. Velcro grass skirts. Only in America.

"Charlie? Would you like one?"

"Yah!" he said, running up.

"Mi – "

"I'm good," Michael said quickly. "All good back here."

Charlie ran back to his uncle, fake straw swishing around his knees.

"Okay," Kailani announced. "Looks like we're all ready to hula! So, the first thing I want you to do is put your hands on your hips. Great. Now, spread your feet apart a little bit," she continued, demonstrating. She waited until the kids mirrored her position. "And now, bend your knees. Okay, good!

"Now, next we're going to take some steps sideways, like this." Kailani showed the group how to move one foot, then bring the other foot to the first foot, repeat, and then do the same thing in the other direction. She showed them how to move their hips like a wave. The kids tried, and their movements even sort of looked like hula dancing.

Michael was a natural. He could even do the hips.

Because here's the thing. If Michael's going to make a fool of himself, he's going to do it all the way. Then he looks like a talented fool, or at least a fool who can copy simple body movements. Otherwise he just looks like an ass.

Fiona was walking very slowly behind Kailani, staring at her horizontal phone, making sure to capture Charlie and Michael from all angles. For Ruth. For Maddie. For posterity. And maybe for blackmail.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I think I'm having more fun writing this story than you all are having reading it. Hope my friends in the USA have a safe and happy Labor Day weekend.


	14. Alone Together

"Bye, Charlie. We love you. We'll see you tomorrow, okay?" said Fiona, kissing Charlie on the cheek and getting a slobbery kiss/lick in return.

"Bye bye, Charlie," Michael called from the bathroom, because even bad ass super spies get stuck in the bathroom sometimes. "Have fun with Uncle Sam and Elsa."

And with that, Charlie and Sam headed out to either the best or the worst slumber party in history.

Fiona locked the front door behind them as they left. Then she leaned her back against the closed door, closed her eyes, slumped down a little, and exhaled a big sigh of exhaustion and relief and excitement all mixed together. She was happy to get a break and to spend some private time with Michael. And sleep.

"Are you almost done in there?" she called to Michael.

Silence.

"Michael?"

"Fi, can we just assume that I'll come out when I'm done? I don't want to give a running commentary on my progress."

Fiona stopped short and realized that before Charlie came into her life, she never would've inquired about another person's toileting status. A two year old erases all boundaries.

"Okay, sorry. Too used to asking Charlie. You know?"

"Seriously, Fi, shut up. This is my first time alone in the bathroom in ten days."

* * *

While Michael was still hiding in their bathroom, Fiona opened the refrigerator to survey dinner options. They'd planned on stir frying a bunch of vegetables. Michael had even pre-chopped everything, possibly the most domestic thing he'd ever done. But Fiona knew this plan wasn't going to work. Just then, Michael emerged from their bedroom.

"I would say I'm sorry I snapped at you, but I'm not actually sorry. Very private time in there, Fi."

"Whatever. We need to talk about something."

"What?"

"I'm on borrowed time tonight. I don't know if I can make it past ten o'clock. So we can have dinner or we can have sex, but we can't do both. I know you said you were hungry on the way home, but so help me god, Michael, if you choose dinner, I will stab you in your sleep," Fiona warned.

Michael's mouth slid into a huge grin as he took Fi's hand and they headed back to their room.

* * *

Fiona quickly took off her jeans. She would've kept going, but Michael loved to undress her, so she left on her tank top, bra, and panties. Once, many moons ago, they'd joked about designing lingerie with gun holsters.

As for Fiona, she preferred herself and Michael nude, and she didn't much care how they got that way. Skin-to-skin contact was about as alluring a sensation as she'd felt. Even more alluring than skin-to-gun-metal.

Both of them usually slept in the nude, but they hadn't since Charlie'd been bunking with them. That was reason enough to make getting Charlie comfortable in the guest room a top priority. So on top of everything else, both Michael and Fiona were looking forward to the exquisite tactile delight of sleeping in their bare skin.

After some lightning-fast teeth brushing to rid their mouths of those sickeningly sweet piña coladas, they practically jumped into bed, grinning like teenagers. Hiding from Charlie felt just as deliciously naughty as hiding from their parents all those years ago.

"God, where to begin," Fi said, smiling.

Michael answered her by straddling her and then sinking into her with deep, decadent kisses.

"Good choice," Fi panted when they stopped to breathe for a second. Lots and lots and lots more kissing later, they were simultaneously relieved and revved up.

And then, yadda yadda yadda, they were just relieved.

* * *

After a little post-yadda-yadda snooze, Michael and Fiona lay peacefully, their bodies interlocked in a human jigsaw puzzle. A leg here, an arm there. Skin and warmth.

"What are you thinking about?" Fiona asked.

"Everything," Michael replied. "All this is so surreal."

"Mm-hmm," Fi agreed.

"I feel like – I dunno, like I'm out of my body, watching someone else with Charlie. And I don't know what that guy'll do next. Not until I see it."

"Yeah?" Fiona prompted, wanting him to continue.

Michael was quiet for a few moments. "I don't know how to describe it, really. Just doesn't feel like me," he said eventually.

"You're doing really well with him, Michael. Do you know that?"

"I – I don't think I've thought about it. It's not that I think I'm doing a bad job. I just don't feel like it's me down there with him." Michael paused. "It doesn't even feel like a cover. Like, it's not that I'm pretending to be an uncle and I've figured out that uncles do X and they don't do Y. It just doesn't feel like me."

Fiona hugged Michael a little tighter, taking some time before she spoke. "I think this is just a part of you you didn't know was there. It's you. Just an unfamiliar you."

Michael was silent.

"Do you like being with him? I mean, I know some of it's fun and some of it's hard, but do you look forward to being with him? Do you like thinking about him?" Fi asked.

Michael thought. "Honestly, Fi, I don't think about it in those terms. I'm just so removed from it." He started stroking her head with his fingertips.

"I think that has to be a defense mechanism," Fiona said after a while. "You called it on the first night. You're afraid to get close because you never get close and you never get close because you're afraid to get close."

Michael snorted a soft laugh. "Yeah."

"Well, Charlie's happy. At the very least we're not traumatizing him. Probably all we can hope for at this point."

"What about you, Fi? How do you feel about all this?" Michael asked.

"I like it. Maybe it's because I've been around a lot of kids. Maybe it's because I know it's temporary. Probably both. And I really like Charlie, you know? He's a neat kid. He's passionate and fiery and he just wants what he wants. I can relate to that."

"That I can definitely see," Michael smiled.

"And as much as I like Charlie, I love seeing you with him, Michael. I love it, for him and for you. I know you feel removed, but you don't look like it when you're with him. Not anymore."

Michael didn't say anything.

"So that's what I think," Fi concluded.

Michael waited a few moments. "I don't know how to ask gently so I'll just ask. Do you want to have a baby? Is that where you're headed?"

Fi laughed. "No. No, Michael, I don't. I like being an aunt. It's the right balance for me. I think I'm a good aunt, but I think I'd be a shite mother." She paused for a moment. "Or maybe I'd be a good mother. Doesn't matter. I don't want to do it," she added. "I assume you're asking because you're worried I'd want to have a baby, not that you're trying to convince me to have one," she laughed.

"If ever there was a question that needed no response," Michael replied.

Fiona wiggled around a little, repositioning herself. "You know, I'm not as tired as before. I might even make it til midnight."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. And I intend to spend a lot of time between now and then right here in this bed," she continued. Then she was quiet.

"But?"

"I'm hungry," she mumbled.

He stopped stroking her hair. "You're hungry?" he repeated. "You're hungry. You."

"Come on, Michael, give me a break. Yes, I'm hungry."

"Were you, or were you not, the person who threatened to stab me in my sleep if I picked food over sex?" Michael asked dramatically.

"I might still stab you if you don't find me something to eat. You may recall I just expended a considerable amount of energy."

"So lemme get this straight," Michael laughed, propping himself up on one elbow. "You're ditching me for food **and** I have to be the one to get the food?"

"Just think of it as payback for Neal," Fiona said smugly.

"All right, you freak, whaddya wanna eat?" Michael asked.

"Grilled cheese sandwiches."

"I can do that," he said, stroking her face before getting out of bed.

* * *

A/N: So this one was shorter and pretty serious. But I think it was right for the story. More funnies coming up.


	15. Playtime

After they ate, Michael and Fiona sauntered back to their bedroom. Michael got into bed, but Fiona leaned up against the wall near the door, facing him and grinning.

"Yes?" Michael said, grinning back. "Something on your mind?"

She continued her gaze, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Fiona? Do I get to be part of whatever it is you're fantasizing about over there?"

"I want you to be Neal," she said in a low, sultry voice.

Michael looked at her for a moment. "You want me to be Neal," he repeated flatly.

"Yep."

"Well, Fi, that is literally the last thing in the world I expected you to say."

Fiona just kept staring at him with a devilish smirk.

"Huh. Neal. You know I don't speak Tongan."

More staring.

"I hope to god you're not asking me to hyperventilate from stupidity."

More staring, and this time she shook her head no.

"So am I to assume you want me to tie you up?" he asked.

"Badly."

"You want me to tie you up badly or you badly want me to tie you up?

"Both."

Michael cracked up. "Okay," he said, trying to stop laughing. "And why exactly do you want me to tie you up badly?"

"Because then I'm going to escape and tie you up very unbadly."

"I see. Lucky me. All right, sure. What the hell. Go get whatever you want to use. I'll work on my Neal."

And off she went.

As a physical matter, tying and being tied don't do anything for Michael. Occupational hazard, probably. Between the two of them, he and Fiona had probably restrained a few hundred people in the last 20 years. A lot of his were when he was doing military operations, helping to capture whole cadres of bad guys at a time. Pretty much all of Fiona's were, well, _unsanctioned_ is probably the most charitable way to put it. And both of them had been captured by their enemies or the police their fair share. Just part of the job. At best Michael was neutral about the whole thing. Usually he was annoyed at having to take the time to tie someone or untie himself.

Playing with Fi was deliciously fun, though, and the fun outweighed whatever discomfort or annoyance he felt. By a lot. The pre-grilled cheese sex was physical and emotional. A release. And it was wonderful. But playing with Fiona was cerebral and hilarious and exactly what they needed tonight.

Fiona reappeared with a small, rolling suitcase. She unzipped it to reveal six rolls of duct tape (two traditional silver, one hot pink, two black, and one multicolored floral); four boxes of cable ties in assorted colors and sizes; four pairs of handcuffs; two pillowcases; and a bunch of sleeping masks, bandanas, scarves, and belts.

"Jesus Christ, Fiona. Where'd we get all that?" Michael asked incredulously.

"Uhhh . . . with the exception of the handcuffs, Target."

Michael halfheartedly dug through the contents of the suitcase with one hand. "Floral duct tape, Fi? Really?"

"It's cute!"

He just shook his head. "All right, you ready?"

"Mm-hmm," she smiled.

"You want a true re-creation of what Neal did, or am I allowed to add my own signature?"

"I want Neal," she purred.

"Listen, Fi, I'm gonna do this because you want me to, but you gotta stop saying Neal. Worse than a cold shower."

"Fine," she sighed.

"Okay, uhhh, go out, give me five seconds, and then come back in," he instructed.

She strutted out slowly, never moving her gaze from Michael. When she left, he found a white cable tie in the suitcase. He slipped the end through the slot and left it loose. Then he slid the zip tie in the back waistband of his PJ pants and stood behind the slightly ajar door.

The door burst open, and Fiona fake-bounced into the room, just as she'd done for the real Neal. Except this time she was naked. She'd pulled on one of Michael's t-shirts when they went to the kitchen, but she'd ditched when she was waiting in the hallway. So that added a level of intrigue to it all.

Still disturbed by the inspiration for Fi's choice of foreplay, Michael just shook his head and rolled his eyes as he pushed the door shut and closed the distance between them with one long stride. He bear hugged her from behind and put his mouth next to her right ear.

"So here's the thing, Fi. I couldn't be as dumb as Neal if I tried. It hurts me to think about it, really. So instead of me fumbling around for 16 seconds, we're going to kiss for 16 seconds, and then I'll tie your wrists badly, and that way we both have some fun."

Fiona tried to stay in character, but Michael could see the corners of her mouth shaking as she stifled a laugh. She turned her head to the right, he turned his to the left, and they enjoyed a much more productive 16 seconds than poor old Neal did.

After the sixteenth Mississippi, Michael reached behind his back with his right hand and grabbed the cable tie. He went to put Fiona's wrists through it, at which point he discovered her arms flaccid and her hands palm to palm, which is exactly the opposite of what she did for Neal.

"Seriously, Fiona? You're making it **hard** for me to do this badly?"

Fiona smirked.

"Oh, for Christ's sakes, gimme your hands," he muttered. He piled her left wrist on top of her right and pulled the cable tie around the X of wrists. He tightened it but left about an inch of slack.

She backed away from him, still with that unwavering, devilish gaze, and made her way to the other side of the room.

"Do I have to try to push you down?" he asked.

She nodded.

Michael shook his head again and walked towards her. When he was about a foot away, Fiona suddenly raised her two-arm unit and tried to sock him in the jaw. Thanks to Michael's having zero alcohol in him and Fiona's shoulders' being at unnatural angles, he managed to block the blow.

"What the fuck, Fiona?"

"You got to improvise. I do, too."

"I improvised by kissing you, not coldcocking you. Jesus."

"Fine, if you're gonna be a baby about it," she teased.

Now Michael had no qualms about trying to push her down. Or actually pushing her down. So he did. And down she went. She righted herself and then sat with her back against the wall, still smirking.

Michael looked down at her. "I suppose it's pointless to ask if you're serious about the duct tape."

"One hundred percent pointless."

Michael allowed a small smile to escape his lips. "**FINE**," he sighed in the best put-upon voice he could muster. He walked across the room to the suitcase and retrieved a role of silver duct tape. He pulled about eight inches off, then thought better of it and pulled another four. He let the foot-long sticky strip dangle from his finger, taunting her.

He squatted down on one knee and centered the tape over her mouth. He massaged the middle four inches into her skin and left the rest hanging loose, because Michael, as much as he wanted to please Fi, wasn't willing to actually hurt her. And having her very long hair pulled out by the roots would hurt, he imagined.

He rose, brushed off his hands, and looked at her. You know how when one of your senses doesn't work, the other four are heightened? When her mouth was hidden from view, Fiona's eyes twinkled and danced that much more.

Plus she was still naked.

"All right? We good?" Michael asked eventually.

She nodded.

"Sooooo . . . what now?"

Fiona gestured with her head to the door, letting Michael know he should leave. So he left.

Eight seconds later, Fiona joined him in the hallway, untethered, untaped, and still naked. "Mmmmm," she purred.

"Good god, you have the strangest turn-ons."

She smiled broadly. "Your turn."

"Once again, lemme just make sure I have this right," Michael began. "You're pissed at Neal for groping you and pulling your hair out with tape. That translates into you making me recreate the whole thing, then you trying to punch me, and now you get to tie me up as well as you can, which should be pretty damn well, if history holds." Michael was laying out his points like he was defending a dissertation. "So Neal got to cop a feel, but I was nearly assaulted and will probably be quite uncomfortable for the foreseeable future," he concluded. "Did I miss anything?"

"Nope."

"Nope. Delightful. All right, gimme a minute and I'll be back." Michael headed into their bathroom. "And **do not **talk to me."

Fiona busied herself selecting her favorite items from the suitcase.

The toilet flushed. Michael washed his hands, then came out stretching his arms and back. "Where to?" he asked.

"Bed," Fiona answered.

"Hmm-mmm," Michael said in a tone suggesting pleasant surprise. "The bed. You think there's a game or somethin' to watch while we do this?" he deadpanned.

"Keep it up, Michael. I'm keeping count of every time you irritate me, and I shall exact my revenge at a time and in a method of my choosing."

He grinned at her. "All right. To bed. Can I use your pillow?"

She nodded, trying not to let him see her smile. Michael put Fi's pillow on top of his own and got himself situated, propped up against the headboard. He noticed as he leaned against it that it gave more than usual. He twisted around and peered down to where it joined the bed, trying to see if something was loose. "Hey, remind me we gotta look at this later, okay?"

"Michael, I am in a euphoric, sensual, heightened state of being. Do not speak to me about a headboard," said Fiona calmly, closing her eyes.

"I'm just saying the longer we leave it, the more likely something is to snap and then it'll be a pain in the ass to fix," Michael explained.

"Michael," Fiona warned, her eyes still closed, "so help me, if you say anoth – "

"Okay, okay, okay. Fine. I'm done. No more headboard talk."

"Roll over," she instructed.

He did, putting his head on the bed instead of the pillows.

"Give me your hands." He did that, too.

Fiona pulled his hands to the small of his back. She peeled off a length of duct tape and wrapped it around his wrists over and over. Michael tried not to count, but he was Michael, so he couldn't not count. Eight times. He sighed internally. Eight layers of duct tape would take some effort to pierce.

She helped him roll back over and sit up against the pillows. She, too, felt the headboard give. Michael was staring at her, so he knew she felt it, and he knew she was trying to pretend like she didn't feel it, and she knew he knew all that. "Shut up," she told him, though he hadn't said a word.

Fi scooted down the bed to pull his legs together. Michael groaned, audibly this time. Tape around the legs is easier in some ways, because you can see it, but having your legs stuck together screws up your balance, not to mention makes it damn near impossible to walk, and that just makes everything more annoying.

And duct tape is a pain in the ass generally because it pulls the hair off everything. Wrists, ankles, beards, everything.

Then Michael saw the tape Fiona was using.

"Are you kidding me with that?" he demanded. "The floral tape, Fiona? Am I not doing all of this for you? You gotta use the world's most effeminate duct tape?"

"I'm doing you a favor. It will help you remember never to mock me."

Michael closed his eyes, exhaled strongly, and leaned his head back. _She was going to blow herself up with me and she went to prison for me_, he kept repeating to himself. When he thought about her sacrifices for him, especially those two, bitching about duct tape seemed to lack class.

Fiona finished with his legs – ten times around, but she was thoughtful enough to do it around his PJ pants, which solved the hair problem – and retrieved a small bandana from the foot of the bed. She wadded it up and moved forward on her knees. "Open up," she said, again with that goddamn grin.

"No way. I don't want that thing in my mouth," he said firmly.

"C'mon," she cajoled.

"No, Fi, my jaw still doesn't close right since that thing in Hallandale. You can get your rocks off without dislocating my mandible."

She pouted. "Fine," she sighed. "Can I tie a scarf around your mouth?"

"Yes, but nothing floral or turquoise or anything like that. Find something manly," he ordered.

She leaned off the bed and pulled the suitcase closer, inspecting its contents. "I've got steel gray or navy blue. Take your pick."

"You know this is one of the more bizarre conversations we've had, right?" Michael remarked.

"Gray?"

"Sure."

Fiona twisted the scarf into a long, cottony snake. She sat astride Michael and leaned forward, pushing the middle of it behind his teeth. Then she took it out and kissed him for a while instead. Then she put it back in. She wrapped it around his head – just once, mercifully – and knotted it at the nape of his neck. Her hair tickled his face and upper body throughout this process.

She kissed his nose, then his chin, then his neck, and then she kissed her way down his chest and onto his abdomen. She paused after kissing his belly button and looked in his eyes.

"It's 10:35. Get yourself free by 10:45 and I'll continue in that direction," she said, her eyes twinkling again.

Michael groaned and rolled his eyes as Fiona got up and left the room.

There are pros and cons to which part of your body you try to free first. Obviously your hands would be the most useful, but they take a very long time to get loose if they were tied by someone who knew what they were doing. And Michael's were. Having your legs separated would allow you to transport yourself quickly and easily, which would be important if a tool you needed to free your hands was located more than a few feet away. Removing a gag is arguably the least important thing to do, but it puts your teeth back into the equation, and teeth can be very handy in other areas.

These are the things Michael learned when the rest of us were skipping our morning classes.

He decided to start with the gag, because he knew he could get it out quickly. Plus it was annoying the crap out of him. Once he wasn't preoccupied with the bowl of sand it felt like he was eating, he could focus and work more efficiently.

Michael sat up and bent his knees up as close to his face as he could get. Then he rubbed his face against his knees, creating movement anywhere and everywhere on the scarf he could. Between that movement and his pushing on the scarf with his tongue, the gag popped out of his mouth in about 15 seconds. He shook his head until it ringed his neck. Then he moved his jaw around until it felt right and moistened his mouth the best he could.

He swung his bound legs off the bed and scooted around the perimeter until he got to Fi's night table. He backed up to it, found the drawer handle with his fingers, pulled the drawer open, and felt around inside until he touched her nail file. He hated, HATED, that she filed her nails in bed, but she wouldn't stop, probably just to annoy him. Today he was glad for her vengefulness. He moved it around until he was holding the point towards the outer layers of duct tape. And then he shoved and poked and stabbed until finally, about six minutes later, the integrity of the tape was so weakened that he could pull it apart. He yanked his right arm, the stronger of the two, away from the tape. Like pulling off a band aid off skin, except he was pulling skin off the band aid. It was about as much fun as it sounds. Michael exhaled at the most painful part, trying to lessen the sting.

From there, he brought his left arm around to the front and carefully removed the tape. Then he unwrapped his legs, unknotted the scarf, wadded up the sticky bindings, and walked into the living room. Just as the clock display changed to 10:43, he threw the ball of used tape directly onto Fiona's head.

"Time to pay up," he announced, extending his hand to help her up.

* * *

A/N: See? Funnies! This one was SO fun to write. I suppose the subject matter is mature, but this has got to be the farthest thing from erotica has ever seen. Thank you again for reading.


	16. A Sucker Punch from Life

A few nights later, Charlie was sleeping soundly in the guest room – turns out dinosaur sheets were all he needed to feel right at home in there – and Michael and Fiona were getting ready for bed.

"You need to cancel whatever you've got going on Thursday morning," Fi called into the bathroom.

Michael rubbed a clear spot onto the glass shower wall. "What's that? I didn't hear you."

"Cancel Thursday morning," she repeated, walking into the bathroom. "We're going to the zoo."

"Why are we going to the zoo?" Michael asked.

"Because Charlie's class is going on a field trip and there's no way we're letting him be that exposed."

"Two year olds go on field trips?" he marveled, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist.

"Evidently," Fi replied.

"All right, I guess we're going to the zoo. Been a while since I did a protection detail. Be good to get back in the saddle," Michael grinned. He brushed the water out of his hair with his fingers and started drying off.

Fi undressed and tossed her dirty clothes to the corner before climbing into bed. "Hey," she said, getting situated under the comforter, "did you call Ruth yet?" Ruth was slowly but steadily improving and was holding her own, all things considered, so the Miami Westens decided to let her know the situation with Charlie. Madeline had gotten in touch with her the day before and had asked Michael to give her a call as well.

Michael looked down, avoiding Fi's eyes. "Not yet," he admitted. "I don't know what to say."

"Uhhh, how about, 'Charlie's doing great and he loves it here.'?" Fi suggested.

"No, that part'll be fine. I'm just dreading a discussion about Nate."

Fiona sat up and extended her arm to Michael. He took her hand and sat down next to her on the side of the bed. "I know. It was awful for all of us to talk to my mom for ages after Claire died. Even if we were just talking about school or cooking or something. Claire was the unspoken subject of every conversation for probably a year.

"You just – you just do it. And it's not that it gets better or easier. You just get used to the horrible. And then one day it's a little less horrible, and the next day a little less, and . . . ."

Michael was quiet as he fiddled with his and Fi's interlocked fingers.

"Honestly, right now she probably just needs someone to listen, to let her say anything or nothing. She's fighting so hard to climb out of that hole to get back to level ground."

"Yeah," he agreed quietly.

Fiona looked at the clock. "It's five after eleven, which means it's five after eight in Vegas. You wanna call her now? I'll do it with you."

Michael looked up from his legs and turned to Fiona. "Yeah," he said, his voice quivering a little. "Thank you."

Fi squeezed his hand as she stretched to her night table for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts list until she landed on Ruth's name. "You ready?" she asked, pushing the green button and holding the phone to her ear.

Michael nodded.

"Two rings," Fiona said. "Three. Oh, hey, Ruth? It's Fiona. . . . Yep, it's me. How are you? . . . Mm-hmm . . . Mm-hmm . . . Well, absolutely, that's why we're calling. Charlie's doing wonderfully. . . . Yep, Michael's right here. Hang on a sec and I'll put you on speaker. Okay, you still there?"

"Yep, I'm here. Hi, Michael," Ruth said. Her voice was thin. Defeated.

"Hi, Ruth. It's good to hear your voice," he replied warmly.

"Yeah, well, I definitely still have my moments, but . . . ." She trailed off, as people do in these kind of conversations. "How's Charlie?"

"He's great. He's having a ball," Michael told her. "Loves his school. Loves to help us cook. He went to a birthday party a while ago and he's got invitations for two more in the next week. Kid's got more of a social life than we do." Michael laughed nervously.

"That's great," Ruth said, her voice breaking. "I wish I was there."

"Ruth, I've been taking pictures like mad. I'll text them to you, okay?" Fiona offered. "Got a few videos, too. There's one in particular you'll love. The boys are hula dancing."

"The boys meaning Charlie and Michael?" Ruth asked, giggling. "I'm sure Michael loved that."

"It's quite the sight to see," Fi agreed. With Ruth's giggle, Fiona knew they'd achieved the superficial bond and comfort women enjoy when they mutually tease or poke fun at a man they both know. It may be superficial, but it's an important first step in a relationship, and right now Fiona was happy to be able to give Ruth any comfort at all.

"Your mom said he's potty training already," Ruth said wistfully.

"Yep, he's doing great," Michael replied, hoping to leave it at that.

"He loves to watch Michael," Fiona chimed in. "Oh my god, Ruth, it's hysterical. He gets so excited and claps for him when he's done. We should all be so lucky to have a cheerleader in the bathroom."

Ruth laughed, her voice starting to gain some strength. "Yeah, Nate used to bring him in there in the mornings. I'd be taking a shower and Nate would watch him. This is when he was, like, six or seven months old. So Nate would move him in his Exersaucer or just put him on the floor or whatever when he went to pee. He used to talk about it like it was this great father-son bonding time, like teaching him to shave or something. He . . . ." Ruth stopped, too choked up to talk.

Michael's eyes filled with tears and he didn't say anything. Fiona broke the silence after three or four seconds. "He was a great dad. Nobody prouder to be a father than Nate," she declared.

The other end of the line was quiet except for the occasional sniff.

"Listen, Ruth, we're gonna let you go. Just know that Charlie is healthy and deliriously happy and he's giving us a real run for our money. We talk to him about you and we show him the pictures of you Madeline put in his little photo book.

"Call me anytime, okay?" Fiona said tenderly. "Michael, too."

Michael cleared his throat. "Absolutely. Anytime," he managed to say.

"Thank you, guys," Ruth said, crying but obviously trying to stop. "Thank you so much."

"No need to thank us, but you're most welcome," Fiona assured her.

"Kiss Charlie for me, okay? Tell him I love him so much."

"You got it," agreed Fiona. "Good night."

"Night, Ruth," Michael repeated, his voice still shaky.

"G'night."

Fiona pressed the red button and tossed her phone on her night table. She looked at Michael, waiting for him to make eye contact. When he didn't, she leaned her head on his left shoulder and put her arm around his back. They sat silently for a few moments.

"I'm gonna go out in the back for a bit, okay?" he said to the ground.

"Of course. You want to be alone?"

"I do. I'll be in soon." He stood and walked out of their room, never looking at her.

* * *

**A/N: Short and sad. I wasn't planning to write a chapter like this, but it just flew from my fingers. Thanks for your continued kind words.**


	17. Patience, My Dear

Sunday night, Fiona was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, and Michael was giving Charlie a shower. Google had led Michael to understand Charlie was a one-in-a-million kid in that he didn't mind bathing or showering at all, not even getting his hair washed. So showering Charlie was, to Michael's happy surprise, one of his favorite kid-related tasks. It was easy. First Michael turned on the shower in the master bathroom. While the water was warming up, he wet and soaped up his hands, then had Charlie stand perpendicular to him at the very edge of the shower stall, out of the stream, so he could wash Charlie's front with one hand and his back with the other. Then rub, rub, rub from neck to toe. The water was always warm by then, so Charlie would scoot under the water to rinse off and get his hair wet. Then he'd scoot back to the edge so Michael could wash his hair, then go back to rinse off, shielding his face with a washcloth. Michael's part of the whole thing took – no joke – 90 seconds or less.

Then came the best part. For the next five minutes or forty-five minutes – however long the adult wanted, really; water conservation be damned – Charlie would sit on the floor of the shower and entertain himself. Play, sing, look down the drain, splash – whatever. He was happy, so Michael and Fi were happy. And amazingly, he seemed to have grown a survival instinct; he never got up from the floor, so he never slipped. One day Fi brought home a little squeegee, and from that day forward, the bottom half of their shower stall was always clean. Charlie took his squeegeeing job very, very seriously. They learned early on not to talk to him while he was squeegeeing.

While Charlie was playing in the shower, one of the grown-ups would sit in the bathroom and relax. Read. Play on a tablet. Catch up on phone calls. They always had an eye on Charlie, of course, but they could do other stuff at the same time. It turned out to be one of the best parts of their day. Some days they fought over who got shower duty. Today had been such a day, and Michael had won.

See, Fiona had been silly enough to make a bet that her patience could last longer than Michael's.

They had been talking about it at brunch – trading war stories about past ops in which they'd had to be extraordinarily patient. Like once Michael lay on a rooftop for 34 hours waiting to take a shot with a sniper rifle. It was only supposed to have been for 10 hours, but a freak thunderstorm had prevented his target from taking his nightly nine o'clock swim in his private pool. The guy chose to stay in for the night, so Michael chose to stay on the roof an extra 24 hours. While being pelted with rain. And then, after the rain, mosquitos. That guy was responsible for the genocide of about 90,000 Africans, so Michael didn't mind waiting. Or getting soaked. Or blood-let. Got him the next night.

Fiona had once been responsible for the care and feeding of one of the IRA's, umm, guests while her, uhh, co-workers negotiated a deal to trade that guy for one of their other co-workers, who was a guest of some Brits in an undisclosed spot in England. Fine. Fi was her unit's go-to person for hostage-keeping because she was mean enough that she could keep the hostage scared enough without actually hurting him. And for various reasons, as a general matter the hostages couldn't be hurt. Also she was pretty good at home improvement tasks, so while her ward was locked in a bedroom somewhere, she'd unclog a drain one of her drunk co-workers had stuffed potato peelings down the night before, SuperGlue a wooden chair back together where someone had cracked it over another guy's head, that sort of thing.

But this guy was just a pain in the ass. For one thing, her fellow soldiers who'd grabbed him had done a piss-poor job and had managed to break the guy's nose. Which meant he could breathe only through his mouth. Which meant Fiona couldn't shove anything in his mouth to keep him quiet. She tried sedating him, but he had an allergic reaction or something and stopped breathing for a while, so that was out. So for nine days, Fi listened to this jerk sing God Save the Queen, Rule Britannia, There'll Always Be an England, and every other British patriotic song he knew.

At first she'd kept him locked in a windowless room, unrestrained. So he kept moving all the furniture around and/or upending it to create a constant cacophony of thumping. So she removed all the furniture. By herself, by the way, while he was locked in the closet. Then he kicked the walls. He lay on his back and just kicked over and over again with both feet. It took practically no strength and used even less energy. So then she tied him to a chair. He just hopped around in the chair all day.

Finally, on day nine, the deal was done, and Fiona got to get rid of him forever. She elbowed him in the solar plexus as he was leaving. Souvenir of his stay Chez Fi.

So anyway, she and Michael had been comparing capacities for patience when she decided to make it interesting, as they say, because she was jonesing big time for some competition. Since Charlie'd come to them, they hadn't been shooting or sparring or bombing or any of the stuff she's better at than Michael. She was getting itchy.

"I bet I'm more patient than you," she sing-songed.

"I highly doubt it," he answered.

"C'mon, nine days and I didn't lay a finger on the guy, let alone kill him? You don't call that patience?"

"Ever stayed still for a day and a half? While being drenched and eaten by parasites?" he countered.

"Well, I say we see who's more patient now. The winner gets shower duty for three nights," she proposed.

"Whaddya have in mind?"

"Whoever answers Charlie's _why_ questions with the most real answers wins," she replied.

Charlie had recently – like on Wednesday – entered what Michael and Fiona learned was called the "why stage." Everything they said was met with _why?_. Every. Single. Thing. Each of them was usually good for an average of four real answers before just yelling "**BECAUSE"** and changing the subject.

Michael shook his head. "Too subjective," he pointed out. "Some of his questions are easy; some make no sense at all."

"Okay, three questions each then. We'll use the sum of all three," she suggested. "That should level things out enough. And both of us have to be around for the other's questions. Questions to us alone don't count."

"You're on," he said. "Remember when the stakes of our bets used to be a gun or a sexual favor?" Michael said, sighing. "Now we're betting to give a shower to a two year old." And they shook on it.

Fi tried to start a thumb war while she was shaking Michael's hand. Seriously jonesing for competition. Michael pulled away.

* * *

They didn't have to wait long to start.

They didn't even have to wait for the check.

"Whatcha drawing, Charlie?" Michael asked, looking at a sheet of paper covered in scribbles.

"Edwuhd."

"Oh, Edward. Looks great. I see you're using a lot of blue, since Edward is blue," Michael observed.

"Why?" Charlie asked, still coloring, not looking up.

"Why is Edward blue?" confirmed Michael.

"Yah."

"Well, a train has to be some color, so I guess the people who painted him decided they wanted him to be blue."

"Why?"

"Why did they decide to make him blue? I don't know. I don't know what they were thinking because I'm not inside their brains."

"Why?"

"I'm not in their brains because I wouldn't fit. And I don't know what they were thinking because in a situation like this one, we just don't know why a person chose to do what he did. There are lots of times we can figure out what motivated someone even if they don't tell us, but here you just can't."

"Huh?"

"_Huh_ what? What didn't you understand?"

"Why boo?"

"We're back to why is Edward blue?"

"Yah, why boo?"

"Because he's not green or red or any other color."

"Why?"

"He's not green or red or any other color because he's blue," Michael said, exhaling deeply.

Fiona pantomimed banging a gong. "Four," she announced. "Okay, Charlie, let's go to the bathroom while Uncle Michael questions his judgment in battling me," she said, helping Charlie down from his chair. "And pays the check."

* * *

Fi got her turn in the car.

She and Michael were, well, they were arguing, but quietly and in more civil tones than usual. They'd gotten better at that since Charlie'd joined them. They were arguing about the best way to get home, because Michael and Fi had finally given up and become a 60-something-year-old crotchety couple. Charlie couldn't hear the venom spewing from their hushed voices until Fiona lost it and loudly invited Michael to bite her.

"No Teefee! We dohn bite," Charlie exclaimed, concerned.

Michael snorted.

Fiona turned around. "You're right, Charlie. I know we don't bite. I didn't really mean for Uncle Michael to bite me. I meant that – well, I didn't mean for him to bite me. You're right. We don't bite."

"Why you say _bite me_?" Charlie asked.

"Oh, it's just a silly thing grown-ups say sometimes when they're mad," Fiona explained.

"Why?"

"Why do grown-ups get mad?" Fi asked, trying to change the question.

"No," Charlie and Michael answered simultaneously.

Fiona punched Michael in his right thigh. "No? They why what, Charlie?"

"Why say _bite me_?"

The problem was Fiona knew that _bite me_ was a crude derivation of _eat me_, and she knew what _eat me_ meant. So the question was could she figure out some way, any way at all, to get out of this cleanly.

Nope.

"Oh, I don't know, Charlie. I just said it."

"Wow," Michael declared. "One real answer and you're done. That might be a new personal low. Do you feel the same embarrassment I feel for you?" he asked smugly.

"Charlie," Fiona said, ignoring Michael, "Uncle Michael told me he's going to go to the grocery store. I'm just going to go home to have a dumb old nap. Who do you want go with? You want to go to the store with Uncle Michael and get a cookie or you want to come home with me to take a nap?"

Michael set his jaw firmly and exhaled deeply.

"Uncuh Micuh Uncuh Micuh! Uncuh Micuh! I wahn a cookie!"

"You know, Charlie, I think Auntie Fi should come with us to the store. Wouldn't that be fun?" Michael suggested.

"No Teefee! Teefee's tie-uhd. You take huh home fuhst. She wahnsta seep."

"Yes, Michael, I really am very tired. Charlie, you're absolutely right. Uncle Michael should take me home first because I want to sleep."

"Okay, then, Charlie. We'll take Auntie Fi home. And then you and I are going to have to figure out some way to **pay** her **back **for her great idea!" Michael said excitedly. "We'll figure out the best kind of **payback** for Auntie Fi.

"Auntie Fi might want to sleep with one eye open," Michael whispered ominously.

* * *

So as of 12:30, the score was 4-1, Michael. Fi performed admirably throughout the afternoon in fielding questions about why there's no light switch to change the traffic lights and why people are the heights they are, getting all the way to 11. But Michael carried the day with a total score of 12 by trying to answer why a car engine makes noise and why yellow is yellow. And that is why Michael got to kick back and read the entire issue of the Sunday _New York Times_ on an iPad in a steamy bathroom while Fiona cleaned the kitchen.

* * *

**A/N: Just a light one for a little texture tonight. If you have any requests for situations you'd like to see Michael and Fiona in, either as teachers or as quasi-parents, let me know! **


	18. Art Imitates Art

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS **

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS**

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS**

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS**

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS**

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

**SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS**

**Do not read if you haven't watched the series finale!**

* * *

This chapter isn't part of the story. But I wanted to interrupt your scheduled reading with a few words about the finale and my story and their one common element.

Obviously I like the idea of Michael and Fi and Charlie becoming their own little family. I like my circumstances better, because in mine, poor old Maddie is felled by a temporary virus rather than a fiery explosion.

I filled in a bunch of blanks in my mind about the logistics of how it worked in the finale. Jesse and Charlie met up with Sam, and soon thereafter Michael and Fiona joined them, and they quickly figured out what needed to happen. Jesse and Sam turned themselves in and made the CIA believe Charlie had died in the explosion along with Maddie (there should've been a headstone for him in the funeral scene), while Michael and Fi whipped up some fake IDs for themselves and Charlie and hightailed it to their little cabin in the snowy woods. I'm cool with all that.

What I'm not cool with is the unspoken treatment of the forgotten character: Ruth. I never liked the idea that Ruth had lost custody because she was in rehab. For one, I think it's unrealistic. I am inside the child protective services world enough to know a white woman with no previous drug/criminal history (and I'm just assuming that here) who is grieving the loss of her very recently separated/divorced husband is not going to lose custody of a preschooler. Just not going to happen. I also didn't like Fi's saying in the premier that Ruth wasn't fit to be a mother. So I wrote my story differently and, in my view, more realistically. I left it (and am still leaving it) an open question where Charlie will wind up in the end.

I don't like that Ruth either thinks her son is dead or thinks he's alive and worries/knows she'll never see him again. I wish Matt would've written even a line or two foreshadowing that Michael and Fi will figure out a way to get Ruth to Charlie, whether permanently or not.

I also wish there would've been some acknowledgment of the enormous difficulties Charlie is going to face after losing 3 out of 3 constants in his life. I like happily-ever-after, but I want to see the challenging journey to get there. It makes the happy happier.

My last nitpick is that Charlie as a character is completely unrealistic. The kid never speaks! Anyone who's been around a 2-3 year old boy for any length of time knows my drawing of him, though done for laughs, is way more true to life. I understand the difficulty of working with and writing for a child actor in a show otherwise made up entirely of adults. Still. Matt's a dad. He's a great writer. He could've made it work.

And now, real life beckons. But I'm working on another chapter, one I started quite a while ago, and it'll be up, well, eventually.

Thank you for reading!


	19. Dread Realized

**A/N: Warning. I cried writing this thing.**

* * *

You all know Michael prepares for everything. A spy prepares for everything. If a pale spy needs to go undercover in the Middle East, he might start artificially tanning months in advance to darken his skin. That kind of thing.

And you know Michael has fallen in love with Google for all his child care questions. He can now easily ignore the crap and hone in on the useful information.

So it should come as no surprise that Michael has been Googling extensively to prepare for when Charlie asks about Nate. The only thing Michael dreads more than having to talk to Charlie about it is not knowing what to say about it. The two times Charlie sort of raised the subject with Madeline, she immediately deflected and redirected. Nobody blamed her. It's hard to imagine anything crueler than making a mother who's lost her child try to explain it to her child's child.

Michael figures he owes it to his mom, and to Nate, and to Ruth, and of course to Charlie to figure out some way to help Charlie through this however he can. So he reads and thinks and reads some more and thinks some more. He dreads that day, but he knows it'll come.

And it came today.

* * *

Michael and Charlie were in the backyard after dinner. They'd hooked up the sprinkler, and Charlie was beside himself with joy as he ran in and out of its streams. Michael may or may not have run a few times, too. Now he was sitting on the edge of the deck, his feet on the grass. Fi was out for the evening with a friend of hers, Lisa. Lisa didn't sell guns, own guns, use guns, or even know how guns work, so Michael was thrilled when Fiona spent time with her. Normal is good every once in a while. Lisa had a real passport and everything.

Good and soaked, Charlie launched himself into Michael. That was their new game. Or at least Charlie's new game. The grown-ups would sit and pretend not to know Charlie was there, then Charlie would come out of "hiding" and run full speed at them, crashing into them and usually knocking them down. Hours of entertainment. Hours. Michael and Fiona had both been beaten up plenty worse than that by people plenty more dangerous than Charlie, so they didn't mind. Too much.

"Ooooof," grunted Michael as Charlie's rock-hard little skull linebackered into his ribs. "Wow, Charlie. What've you been feeding your head to make it so strong? Have you been eating rocks again?" he teased.

"No wocks!" Charlie laughed hysterically. That's the thing about a two-year-old kid. They have two speeds when it comes to laughter: not laughing and laughing hysterically.

"Well, maybe your head's been sucking up all your hair. Hair has lots of protein, you know," Michael told him.

"My head doesn't eat my heh-uh! Yuh being silly!"

"I am being silly, Charlie. You're right. You wanna go inside now? It's getting pretty late."

"Noooooooo," Charlie whined.

"Tell you what. We'll stay out for five more minutes, and then we'll go inside."

"Yayyyyyy!" shrieked Charlie, which caused a few dogs on the street to start barking. He ran around a bit more in the sprinklers, examined some piles of dirt near where Michael and Fiona had meant to start something resembling landscaping, and then came back to Michael and crawled up on him.

"Yuh naw my daddy," Charlie said, out of the blue. Not out of the blue for him, of course, because everything a two-year-old says makes sense to him. But out of the blue for everybody else.

"That's right, Charlie. I'm not your daddy. I'm your uncle," said Michael cautiously, trying to hide his nervousness.

"Is Teefee my mommy?"

"No, Auntie Fi is your aunt. An aunt is like an uncle who's a lady."

"Why you my uncuh?" Charlie asked. Michael could see his little brain trying to make sense of his world.

"I'm your uncle because I'm your daddy's brother. An uncle is the brother of your mom or your dad. So you have an Uncle Matt, too, and he's your mommy's brother."

"Weh-uh is Uncuh Matt?"

"He lives in Las Vegas, just like your mommy."

"Weh-uh do I live?" Charlie asked, his brows furrowed.

"Well," Michael said, adjusting himself and getting Charlie more securely nestled in the Indian-style legs of his lap, "right now you live in a city called Miami. That's where we are now. That's where Grandma Maddie and Auntie Fi and I all live. But you used to live in Las Vegas with your mommy, and you might live there again later."

"Tuhmahwoh?"

"No, not tomorrow. I don't know when."

"Weh-uh does my daddy live?"

And then Michael's stomach dropped out from under him. All his reading, all his thinking, all his preparing was for how to answer questions about death – what it means to die, what it means to be dead. He didn't consider Charlie might have different questions, more concrete questions. Like where does his dad live.

Michael wrapped his arms around Charlie from the back, shielding him from the world. "Your dad used to live here in Miami with me and Grandma Maddie and Grandpa Frank. And then when he got to be a grown-up, he lived in a different house in Miami. And then he lived in Las Vegas with your mommy," he said, hoping against hope that was the end of the conversation, then feeling guilty for hoping it was finished. All Michael had to do was talk about it, probably a bunch of times, but just talk about it. Charlie had to live it. And re-live it. Over and over, for the rest of his life.

"Weh-uh is his housh now?"

A knife. Straight through Michael's heart.

"Charlie, your dad doesn't have a house now. He died when you were little. Do you remember talking to your mommy about that?" he asked, calm on the outside but desperately wanting to disappear on the inside.

"I dohn no he is died," Charlie replied. "What is died?"

Michael's eyes welled with tears. "When a person dies, it means their body stops working. They don't see or talk or hear or anything anymore."

"When will his body wuk?"

The tears were falling now. Michael lifted his head to the sky, hoping gravity would stop what he couldn't. "His body isn't going to work anymore, Charlie. When a person dies, he's dead forever. He stays dead."

Charlie looked terrified. "How will he come live wif us when he is died?"

Michael just hugged him tighter and didn't say anything for a few moments. "Charlie, buddy, your daddy can't come live with us. I would love for him to come live with us. But he can't. People who are dead don't live in houses with people like us who are still alive."

"Why he doesn't wanna live wif us?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Oh, Charlie," Michael said quietly, his voice cracking. "Charlie, he **would** want to live with you if he could. He would love to live with you and be with you and see you all the time. He just can't. Dead people can't do that."

"Weh-uh does he live?" Charlie asked, coming full circle. "Weh-uh is he died?"

This time Michael didn't bother trying to stop crying. He just tried to control his breathing and his voice so he wouldn't scare Charlie. "He lives in a special box, a nice, big box that has a kind of bed inside. It's very comfortable. It's not scary at all. Remember he can't hear or see or feel things anymore, so he doesn't feel scared or sad or anything. And then," Michael said, anticipating Charlie's next question, "some special people put the box inside the ground and covered it up nice and safe so it won't get rained on or bumped into or anything."

Charlie started to cry. Real, fat tears. "Is my mommy died?"

"No, no, no, no, no," Michael assured him, kissing his head. "Your mommy is fine. Her body still works all the way. She's not dead. She's alive and she loves you very, very much. She got a little sick. You remember how Auntie Fi got a cold last week and felt really yucky? Well, your mommy was sick in a different way, but just like Auntie Fi felt better, your mommy will feel better, too. And while your mommy feels sick, she thought you'd have more fun if you came to live in Grandma Maddie's house, because Grandma Maddie wasn't sick. Except then Grandma Maddie got sick. That was pretty weird, wasn't it? Remember when Auntie Fi and I came to pick you up? Grandma Maddie has a virus that makes her feel really bad, but she's getting better just like your mommy is getting better. Right? You've been talking with her on the phone. So then everyone thought you'd have more fun if you came to live with us because we're not sick."

"Why is my daddy died?" Charlie asked, still crying.

Michael hugged him again, harder, and stayed quiet again, for longer. "Buddy, I wish I had a good answer for you, but I don't. Everybody dies when their body is all finished living. Usually we die when we're really, really old, like 90 years old. But sometimes people die when they're younger, like your dad. It's always sad when someone dies. We're sad because we love that person so much and it makes us sad to think we can't see them or talk to them anymore. And it feels kind of extra sad when someone dies who's not a very old person.

"I'm really sad that I can't see your dad or talk to him anymore. He's your dad and he's my brother, and brothers love each other a lot. It's okay for you to be sad, too. It just means you love your dad," Michael said, hoping he was giving the kid even a little comfort.

"Evwybody dies? Aw you gonna die?" Charlie asked, now crying harder.

Michael was squeezing this kid so hard already, but somehow he managed to hug him even tighter. "Yeah, Charlie, I'm gonna die." His voice choked up, and he had to force himself to breathe. "But Charlie, look at me for a minute." Michael waited until their eyes met. "I'm probably not gonna die for a really, really, really long time." Michael stopped as he heard himself. In a million years he didn't think he would make it to 70. Probably not to 60. And he had made his peace with that. He was stunned at how easily he said he wouldn't die for a very long time. For Michael, that was the biggest lie of them all. "Nobody knows when they're going to die, Charlie. For most people, it's not until they're very, very old. So I probably won't die until I'm very, very old. Same with you. Same with Auntie Fi and Grandma Maddie and your mommy and your Uncle Matt. Same with everybody."

"I wanna be died wif my daddy," Charlie wailed.

More, tighter, longer hugging. That's all Michael could do.

"I know how much you want to be with him. But we all want you to stay here with us. In this house, or with your mommy, or with Grandma Maddie. You've got people in three houses who love you so much and want you to be with them. We'd all be so sad if you died.

"And I know you don't remember him very well, but I know your daddy loved you more than anything or anybody in the whole world. He wouldn't want you to die. He'd want you to stay here with your family who loves you and go to your school and play with all your trains and go swimming and do all the stuff you love to do. He wouldn't want you to die," Michael said haltingly. It was still hard for him to talk.

Charlie kept crying, but he was calming down. He finally stopped to yawn.

"Let's go over to the chair, okay? I think we'll be more comfortable," Michael suggested. He stood up, still holding Charlie, and walked to one of their deck chairs. He carefully lay down. Charlie wiggled around to get comfortable in the safe nook of his uncle's body.

That's where Fiona found them an hour later, sleeping.


End file.
